


Climbing the Ladder

by Rinasoir



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Self-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:53:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 41
Words: 220,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26630110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rinasoir/pseuds/Rinasoir
Summary: Our main character, after annoying the all-powerful being that is GRRM, well that is after being impaled by a forklift first and then annoying GRRM, wakes up in the body of one teenage Petyr Baelish, freshly nearly-disemboweled. Hilarity ensues.This is a crosspost of a story I have written in other places, all chapters currently written will be uploaded as swiftly as practicable.
Comments: 65
Kudos: 177
Collections: A Collection of Beloved Inserts, Foreknowledge





	1. Chapter 1

**Chapter I,**

**A Confused Songbird**

It had been disappointing. There was no other word he could think of to better describe the season finale of Season 5 of Game of Thrones. He sat back in his chair and sighed, he had such high hopes for the show, and Hardhome had been such a good episode, but now he was done. Instead of choosing to dwell on it though, he looked outside and saw that it had become bright, he scrambled to find his phone and realised with horror that he had ten minutes before his alarm to get up for work would go off. He couldn’t call into work sick, so instead he would have to do his warehouse shift tired. He showered, got dressed, had breakfast and made his way to the bus stop to get to work.

*******

His shift was nearly over, and for that fact he was eternally grateful. He didn’t normally drink coffee but he had poured several cups of it into himself to stay awake, and now all he had to do was push one last cage of boxes down the length of the warehouse and he would be home free. If he had been more awake, he might have heard the shouts of dismay from his left. If he had been more alert he might have noticed the sound of tires squealing as they took off across the floor of the warehouse, unguided by a driver. Either way he became acutely aware of the runaway forklift as a fork on the vehicle embedded itself through the side of his torso.

He had enough time and air left to let out what he thought was “oh fuck” but instead was merely the sound of air caught in his gurgling mouth as blood filled it. Things started to go dark then, and the shock began to wear off to give way to the searing pain in his chest.

*******

He didn’t claim to be a master philosopher, or theologian, so he was very certain he didn’t really have any idea of what was supposed to happen after someone died. However, he most assuredly didn’t think that it would be what was before him. He stood in a room surrounded by maps, books and littered with papers and coffee cups. On the wall there were pictures, but he couldn’t make them out, and next to the pictures was a collection of lanyards hanging to a piece of rope from a hook. He realized with a start that they were convention lanyards, but before he could say anything a voice spoke up.

“So, you didn’t like the finale?”

He looked around and saw a figure sitting in front of a computer screen, something about the voice sounded very familiar to him, and when the figure turned around he recognized it instantly.

“You’re George R.R. Martin.”

“I am.”

“Where the hell am I?”

Martin gave him a look, and let out a low chuckle that didn’t sound reassuring at all.

“Right now, you are between.”

“Between what?”

“Just between. You died some two standard earth minutes ago, and instead of just disappearing into what comes next, your consciousness was grabbed by me. So again I ask you, you didn’t like the finale?”

He was confused as all hell, but right now he felt like answering was a good move.

“No I didn’t. It felt rushed, the Boltons continue to have ludicrous levels of plot-armour. Stannis’s character was butchered, the Dorne scenes continued to add nothing of value to the series and “For the Watch” was just dumb. The only upshot was a nice hint at Cleganebowl.”

Martin raised an eyebrow. “I see, and tell me, you have written a television series or book series?”

“Well no.”

“I didn’t think so. Normally we successful creative types around about now tell you that if you think what we did was bad, then you should go and make something yourself. However I take this a little bit more directly. Tell me, do you know what an ASB is?”

“Yeah it means Alien Space….Bat” his voice trailed off at Bat as a terrifying realisation hit him “You are one aren’t you?”

“Yes I am.”

“I’m about to be given the ISOT treatment aren’t I?”

“Yes you are.”

“It’s going to be to Westeros?”

“Yup.”

“Okay I have one question then.”

Martin looked at him for a moment and then nodded his head for him to ask his question.

“If you can control time and reality, is that why Winds of Winter keeps getting delayed?”

Everything went black again and the pain in his chest returned, it was extremely sore and seemed to move and change as what he thought of as his body moved and changed. He just knew he wasn’t going to like what came next.

*******

****

The pain came back tenfold, whereas the shock had kept him from feeling it until the very end, now he could feel it in full force. However the wound was different, he couldn’t tell exactly how as his torso was still were the wound was, but it was different. He darted his eyes around to try and figure out where he was, but the room was dark and he couldn’t move. The pain was nearly unbearable, and before too long he found that everything was turning black again. It was during this occasion that he began to have some very disturbing dreams, in them he was a single small child standing against a massive wolf. The wolf had mauled him, mauled him until everything turned to flaming pain. From the flame he found himself staring forlornly at someone, a woman, but in a moment she was gone. From there a darkness spiralled around him, and all he saw were flashes of light as he fell further into a pit of darkness.

He didn’t know how long he had such a nightmare, but he awoke to an older man with a metal chain around his neck poking at his chest and changing the bandages. Before he could look to the wound the old man, a maester whose name he couldn’t remember, noticed he was awake and force fed him something to drink. The nightmares returned shortly, but before they did he had a single cohesive thought.

‘How could I remember his name if I never knew it before?’

And somewhere in his mind he saw a brief flash of the same man, but in a room surrounded by scrolls, inkpots and with the sound of ravens nearby. He somehow knew this man, but his name still escaped him.

*******

He was awoken again by someone changing his bandages. This time however it was not the Maester, it was a young woman who seemed to sing softly to herself as she worked. Her voice was not great, but something about it sounded familiar to him. He opened his mouth to say something to her, but it was very dry, so instead he made only a noise. She noticed and turned to look at him, and he realised that something about the young woman was very familiar. She looked at him and her face was full of worry, but she didn’t say anything. He tried again and finally was able to say

“Water”

She looked at him, took a moment to process what he said and then moved across the room to where a pitcher was set up. She came back with a stone cup and held it up to his lips to drink from. He took as much of it as he could, and it tasted to him like the most delicious thing he ever had. He swirled it around his mouth a bit, savouring the flavour, and finally swallowed it.

“Thank you.”

That caused a look of surprise on the woman’s face, and then she broke out into a wide smile.

“I’m just glad to see you are feeling better. What that brute did to you is unforgivable, and even though she begged him not to finish you off the Maester wasn’t even sure you would survive. But I knew you would pull through, so I’ve stayed and made sure to nurse you back to health.

She then moved in to kiss him, and he recoiled from her. He could see on her face an emotional mix of shock and sadness suddenly break out, and he realized he would have to think fast to avoid hurting her feelings.

“Sorry, you just brushed off of my wound I’m afraid. Truth be told I am truly sorry but as much as I would like to kiss you I fear that the excitement it would cause might exacerbate my condition.”

There was a tense moment, but then she seemed to buy his excuse and appeared satisfied with his answer.

“Very well then. I shall tell Maester Vyman that you are feeling a little better and I will leave you to rest.” With that she turned to go and stopped in the doorway to look at him and smiled again.

“I’m so happy to see you are still alive Petyr” and she left the room.

‘Oh fuck’ was his only thought, and in the distance he could swear he heard a chuckle that again didn’t sound in anyway reassuring.


	2. Chapter 2

****

**Chapter 2**

**Petyr I**

To the person previously known as James Turner, but now known as Petyr Baelish, the day fit what was becoming his routine. His bandages were again being changed, however instead of it being Lysa Tully it was thankfully Maester Vyman. Well, thankfully might not be the correct word, as the man was rough with his wound and had the bedside manner of a particularly ill-tempered cow. If he was still suffering from the delirious nature of the first day, or even the still total confusion of the second day, he would likely have been upset with the man for again poking the wound in an almost belligerent manner. However this was the fourth day of his time in the land of Westeros, and he was starting to feel more grounded than he had been before. He had spent the entire previous day pretending to be asleep, partially to avoid having to deal with Lysa and partially trying to figure out what the hell had happened to him. Thinking about it had led to his recalling both being impaled by a runaway forklift, and the sheer futility of Baelish’s attempt to fight Brandon Stark.

The memory of Baelish’s total lack of fighting ability going up against a much superior fighter were enough to make him want to face palm. However lifting his arm to his face was an action that caused him no inconsiderable amount of pain, as the long wound stretching from just below his neck to just above his bellybutton continued to heal slowly, and thankfully it was not infected. He had been lost in reminiscence and barely heard the Maester as he addressed him, being addressed as Lord Baelish or Petyr was going to take some time to get used to.

“I’m incredibly sorry Maester Vyman, but could you repeat that? I fear I wasn’t paying much attention.”

The man gave him a look that would cause milk to sour but spoke again, slower.

“I said Lord Baelish, that luckily for you the wound is not showing any sign of a corruption. Doubtless the attentions of the young Lady Tully have managed to help you die, so I feel you can attest to both of them having saved your life now.”

“Yes, I’m very fortunate for the actions of both of them. If not for them I would have doubtless died from my own foolishness.”

That caused a reaction, as the face of Maester Vyman took on a surprised expression. Petyr, well he should probably start thinking of himself in that name if he was going to be stuck here, had decided that he wouldn’t just sit back and pretend that the world owed him jack shit. He was in the land of Game of Thrones, and in this land thinking that you were owed anything was a quick and easy way to get yourself killed. So instead he had decided during his day of just thinking that he would probably be better served by owing up to the foolishness of what he attempted, rather than taking it as a personal slight against him by the universe. He was not after all, Petyr Baleish, well actually he was, and gods this was confusing.

The older man looked at him, and for a moment there was a touch of sympathy in them, and Petyr started to remember all of the lessons he had taken with the older man. All of the letters written and studied, all of the stories listened to and all the questions asked and answered. Petyr had been his star pupil, always attending lessons and doing the work assigned to him and tackling any questions he placed with diligence. And for a moment the older man looked at him as if they were back in the Maester’s room and he had answered a question correctly. Vyman’s face quickly went back to the cold distant expression it had been before, although the disgust that had been evident on other occasions was gone, and he turned to leave the room without a word.

“Maester Vyman wait please.”

The man stopped at the doorframe and turned his head a fraction towards him.

“Could you tell me what date it is? I am curious as to how long I have been injured for.”

“Today’s date is the 11th of Sixth Moon of the year 279 AC. Brandon Stark and his party left for Harrenhal three days ago.” He made to leave, and then hesitated in the doorway for a moment.

“I also wish to warn you Petyr, Lord Hoster has decreed that you are to be exiled from Riverrun once you are well enough. Your foolishness could yet bring this family great calamity.”

And with that he left the room, and Petyr was left alone with his thoughts again. He knew from the last couple of days that Lysa would probably show up later in the afternoon, the exact length of time was hard to judge so he had until then to lay back in bed and think about the situation he was in.

‘Ok, let’s take stock. You are currently inside a universe that is different than your own, you are in a world that you know some about, but what you know may be wrong. You are in the body of a sociopathic little shit who is seventeen years old. That alone means you are going to have to go through the tail end of puberty again, joy. Right until the dragons hatch in, ehm, seventeen or nineteen years’ time the world is at least a low-fantasy setting. Lysa is, nineteen years old and Catelyn is…’

When he thought of Cat, he felt his vision start to go red. It was god damn infuriating what he knew, the fact she would never be his, that she would choose the brother of that Northern lout instead of him, a man that would never love her like he did and would lie to her about his bastard son and constantly place pain upon her heart. He wanted to see her burn, see them all burn and in their ashes he would create a new world where none would dare to spurn him ever again. Let them play their little game of thrones, he’d burn the damn board to a cinder so he could rule over the ashes, and to do that all he would need was a little chaos, and with what he knew now he could create chaos on a scale not seen since the Long Night itself.

The sudden searing pain as his body hit the stone floor of the room he was in was enough to snap his thoughts back into focus.

“FUCKING HELL”

And then things started to turn black again.

He didn’t remember the rest of that day, just flashes of recollection that passed by mostly unfocused. Someone passing by had come into the room and seen him on the floor, he vaguely remembered that, he also vaguely remembered being hoisted back into his sickbed and Maester Vyman standing over him. He had blacked out then, and when his eyes had opened he realised that it was dark outside. He lay there in the bed, his eyes wide open, and tried to think again. The thoughts from before he had hit the floor had surely not been his, had they? Try as he might to deny that they had been his thoughts, there was no way to deny their intensity, their clarity. In that moment he had seen flashes of a plan like the one Littlefinger had made, but turned up to eleven. He had used his position of power, the ruler of the underworld of King’s Landing, to funnel the money into making cannons and guns. He had used those weapons to slay the White Walkers and Daenerys with her dragons, and with the adoring people of Westeros, grateful that someone had stepped up to be their saviour, he had seized the Iron Throne for himself, and taken the much younger Sansa Stark to be his wife, and destroying any that stood in his way.

He shuddered to himself, those weren’t his thoughts, but they were. They were the thoughts of Littlefinger, and as well as his body and memories, it appeared that Petyr had gained his personality as well. He couldn’t let that aspect of himself run wild, to do so would likely end in misery, even by Westerosi standards, but he couldn’t keep it boxed up forever, all that would guarantee would be more episodes like today, where the personality that he was calling Littlefinger would just burst through again.

*******

It was his seventh morning since waking up in Westeros, and he was getting utterly sick of this bed. He could move a bit, but not very far or without assistance, and Maester Vyman was keeping an eye on him, as once he was healthy enough he was to be sent packing. Considering the borderline predatory presence of Lysa Tully, leaving couldn’t come sooner in his opinion. Today was another day of her spending time with him, and if he was honest he would have to admit that she was not a bad looking girl. She had red hair, an attractive build and a lovely smile. However he felt guilty in her presence, he knew that Littlefinger had manipulated and abused her, treated her as little more than a tool and then murdered her at his earliest convenience, she had loved him and he had treated her like shit. She hadn’t tried to kiss him again thankfully, the first time his reaction had been based entirely on the instincts of a girl he had never met before trying to kiss him while he was in a lot of pain, and ever since the roll onto the floor he had been able to dissuade her.

“Petyr” she said, looking at him with a smile on her face “do you think you are good enough for a walk? Just to the godswood, you can rest there for a while and we can come back. The Winter is starting to clear and it is turning into a lovely place to visit again.”

He could hear the hidden intentions in what she was saying, and he knew that if he didn’t break it off with her today he wouldn’t get such a chance again.

“Certainly, if you can help me out of bed and into some clothes I will gladly walk with you, so long as you don’t mind me leaning on you a bit.”

“Oh Petyr” she giggled “leaning on me is not a problem”

They made their way slowly to the godswood, mainly hampered by his shuffling pace, and as they trudged throw the area they came to rest before the heart tree, and he felt awed. It was simply a tree he had never seen before in his life, the bark and branches a strong white with red leaves everywhere. The face carved into it gave him chills, and though he still wasn’t sure if they were following book or TV continuity in this reality, he didn’t fancy letting the thing that might be watching from the tree know that he knew they existed.

“Staring into the abyss and all that.” He muttered under his breath.

“What was that Petyr?”

“Nothing Lysa, nothing.”

She gave him a quizzical look, and then looked around to make sure they were alone, that done she sat down beside him and cuddled into him in an intimate position.

“Lysa, we can’t-“

“Shush Petyr, I know father plans to send you away once you are well. But I have come up with a plan that will keep us together. If you take me now, and I become with child, father will have to let me marry you. With that done we can go to your lands and be husband and wife forever.”

Flashes appeared of an older version of this sweet girl, bitter and mad with grief and heavily mentally abused. She spit out the hateful reality of the future of that plan, of her father forcing her to drink Moon Tea to destroy the baby and marrying her off to Jon Arryn as his price for the Riverlands in the rebellion. It was too much to bare, and as she came in for a kiss, he realized he had to stop it now if he wanted this girl to have anything approaching a happy future.

“No.” He said it as forcefully as he could, and she looked at him in total confusion. “No Lysa, we cannot do this. Your father is an honourable man, yes, but when it comes to his priorities you but need to look at the words of your family to understand him. “Family, Duty, Honour” in that order. You are his family, to him your duty is to do as he says and marry who he tells you to and to the seven hells with your honour. I will not send you on a path of conflict with your father just for us, just so that you can waste out the rest of your days on a storm battered rock surrounded by sheep excrement. Lysa, if you have ever truly loved me, please don’t try and do this.”

She looked at him, and in a moment her eyes were filled with tears.

“It’s because I am not her isn’t it? You fought Brandon Stark for her because you love her, but you would cast me aside like a cheap whore.”

“No, I challenged Brandon Stark so that your sister, one of the only two people in this world I call a friend, wouldn’t have to spend the rest of her days living in a frozen ruin miles away from civilization with a brute like him for a husband. I valiantly attacked his sword with my mid-section to stand up for my friend and to try and give her a better life, just like how now I’m trying to give you a better life by dissuading you from this path. Please, don’t cause more grief than I already have.”

She looked at him, and then spoke in a very quiet voice.

“Hold me, just hold me one last time.”

“That I can do Lysa.”

He wrapped his arms around her, and ignored the pain in his mid-section as she shook with sobs. He felt like hell for making her cry, but compared to the fate that awaited her he knew it was a mercy. On the back of his neck he could feel someone watching him, and he knew without looking that gaze would belong to the heart tree, and that caused him to shiver.

*******

It had been two weeks since he had woken up in Westeros. And now his body was as healed as it probably was going to be, although he still had a wrapping of bandages around his chest they were mostly precautionary instead of necessary. He could walk and ride under his own power again, and in the past week his only company had been the occasional visit from a Maester Vyman. He had helped him write up a letter to be sent to the Eyrie, informing Lord Arryn that he would be returning to the Vale. Probably unnecessary as he was sure that Hoster Tully had sent a letter informing Lord Arryn what he had done, but he would be dammed if he would just slink home to lick his wounds without presenting himself to his liege lord. Today though was the day when he was set to leave, and before he could do that he would have to appear before Lord Tully himself, and inform him that he was leaving. Hoster Tully sat in his solar, and didn’t even look up as Petyr entered into the triangular room, he simply pointed at a spot in the floor and Petyr stood there and waited. If he had expected Petyr to speak first, to plead to stay he wasn’t in look as Petyr stayed standing in silence, finally he started to speak.

“Petyr, I fostered you here in my home out of respect for the friendship I had with your father. After nine years of caring for you, looking after you and treating you almost as my own kin, you then turn around and show a great disrespect to me by daring to question my choice on who my daughter should marry. You challenge a guest in my house to a duel, and the only thing that kept you alive was the mercy of that guest when he defeated you like the feckless boy that you are. So tell me, before you leave do you have anything that you would like to say to me?”

“No my Lord. I acted rashly and like a fool, I thought I was living in some noble tale instead of the real world, and by doing so I tarnished not merely my name, but your own name and the name of my departed father. It seems to me that the best course of action for me is to return to the Vale, and try to lead a quiet life.”

“See to it that you do, and know this Petyr Baelish, if I ever see you inside the walls of Riverrun again, I will not be so merciful as to let you go. Now be gone from here.”

“Yes my Lord.”

With that he turned and left the room quietly. He made his way to the water gate were a small boat was waiting to bring him to the ship that would bring him to the Saltpans, from there he would proceed on horseback to the Eyrie before going home. Waiting to see him off were two people, Lysa and Vyman. Lysa hugged him briefly, but she looked over his shoulder at where her brother Edmure was standing nearby, a sword as his side and a very stern expression on his face. More worrying was that her Uncle the Blackfish was waiting for him on the boat, but he was fairly sure that at worse the man would just punch him a couple of times. Maester Vyman held out a satchel to him, and he took it gratefully.

“It is not much, just some ink and parchment, may haps with it you might do something productive with your life Petyr.”

“Thank you Maester. I will always remember your lessons with fondness, even if some were more interesting than others.”

With that he sat down into the boat and watched Riverrun as the boat pulled away.

“Take a good look boy” came the voice of the Blackfish beside him “because you will never see it again.”


	3. Chapter 3

****

**Chapter 3**

**Petyr II**

One thing Petyr was coming to appreciate was the sheer scale of the world that he was now in, he had started down the Red Fork of the Trident two days ago and he still hadn’t reached the point where all three forks joined into one. The captain said it would be another day and a half before they would reach Saltpans, from there Petyr would have to travel North to the High Road and proceed along it to the Eyrie where he would present himself to Jon Arryn, and from there he would go to the place he supposed was home, the “Drearfort”. The name came to the fore of his thoughts without really having to think about it, and Petyr smiled a bit to himself as he walked up onto the pre-dawn deck of the ship. His knowledge and thoughts were like that at the moment, a lot of the things that would be common everyday knowledge came to him with ease, even a few anecdotes of Littlefinger’s life up to when what had been James Turner was thrown into the mix, came forward to his easy knowledge without much coercing. When it came to specifics however, things became more difficult. He had avoided thinking about the Tully sisters less that set off another reaction like before, and in general he got the impression that the creature that he referred to as Littlefinger was just lurking in the back of his mind waiting for a moment to come forward again. In the pre-dawn morning he shivered, the thought of Littlefinger armed with all the knowledge that he now had was still terrifying.

‘Although’ he thought to himself as he positioned to watch the sun rise in the gradually lightening sky ‘he at least would have a fucking clue as to what I’m supposed to do here.’ It was the problem that was plaguing his mind, what exactly was he supposed to do in Westeros? He could try and take the same path as Littlefinger had, but honestly he didn’t exactly know what that was. He knew that it involved a lot of corruption and manipulation, but how exactly one went about that was not something that came to mind easily. He could try investing in brothels, but he didn’t know where he would get the money for that. The brothel management part would be easy enough, knowledge of safe sex and guaranteeing the safety of the working girls would go a long way in that category, and with a couple of years to build up reputation as a particularly high quality provider of the carnal arts he could be rolling in gold. From there taking that gold and investing it into either an expansion of operations or the acquisition of a new business, shady or not, would be child’s play.

‘Wait a second. How the hell do I know how to manage a brothel?’ Petyr was a bit confused, after all James Turner’s knowledge of prostitution was confined almost entirely to information gleamed from GTA and Saints Row and other pulp fiction like that. Littlefinger was years away from managing one, and the concepts of “safe sex” that the plan called for were definitely not in line with what Littlefinger could have thought of. It was with a creeping horror Petyr realised that this was a thought produced by both of them, the entire “Running a Brothel 101” train of thought had been from him subconsciously combining both personalities and sets of memories together. While being able to marry the merits of both personalities to each other was a theoretically nice thing, the fact that Littlefinger’s personality could influence his thoughts subconsciously was a cause for concern. Was he losing control?

“Well little Mockingbird, up to watch the dawn break again are you?”

The voice of Brynden Tully snapped Petyr out of his gloom. He had thought that the Blackfish would only be making sure he got on the boat to the Saltpans, instead he had apparently been tasked to see Petyr out of the Riverlands entirely, and he would be escorting him to the Eyrie, mostly because he was curious to see the seat of House Arryn himself. Petyr had feared that the older man would try and make his life miserable, instead he turned out to be a pleasant enough travelling companion. His dislike for his older brother meant that he didn’t view the entire Brandon Stark incident in as negative a light as the rest of House Tully, and considering Petyr hadn’t gone around bragging about sleeping with both of his nieces, his desire to defend his nieces honour wasn’t dictating his actions. The fact that he had been one of the key people to help raise Littlefinger in Riverrun was just an icing on the cake, and Petyr was glad that he had been able to avoid sabotaging the relationship between himself and the Blackfish. He wasn’t exactly Petyr’s new best friend or anything, but he was willing enough to indulge him in conversation to help pass some time on the boat. The first such conversation had been on the topic of personal sigils, and the Blackfish had begrudgingly agreed to call Petyr after his sigil instead of by the name “Littlefinger”, in return Petyr was calling him simply “Blackfish”. Truth be told the quasi-informality was refreshing to Petyr as he was still very much getting used to having to deal with titles.

“Why break a habit that I have already come to enjoy? At least when the sun comes up it means we are nearer to our destination and back on firm ground, and while you might find the river second nature Blackfish, I would not.”

“True enough Mockingbird, true enough.” There was a look of wry amusement in the Blackfish’s eyes “As soon as we are back on firm ground I might be able to find out more information about the goings on at Harrenhall.”

The infamous tournament was in full swing at the moment, and would likely be over by the time that Petyr reached the Saltpens. The hope was that they would reach the Bloody Gate just as the various members of the Arryn household would be getting back to the Eyrie, although whether they would then be going into the fortress itself or the Gates of the Moon was up for debate, the fact that the weather seemed to be changing from winter to summer meant that the Blackfish hadn’t been entirely sure. Either way, there would still be a fair amount of travelling in their future, and Petyr knew what was coming. Thoughts of Robert’s Rebellion loamed over Petyr right now, but the problem was that he wasn’t sure how much time he had left before that happened. The exact dates were not exactly well known to him, but he knew that it would all happen once Lyanna Stark gets kidnapped by Rhaegar, and the tourney at Harrnehall had been one of the moments before that happened. Trying to make sense of all the events in the future that could happen was enough to make his head spin, so instead he sighed and messaged at his temples.

“Were you drinking with the sailors again Mockingbird?”

“No, although they did offer. This is a headache more based on the future than any result from drinking last night.”

“Doesn’t do a man well to dwell on the future. That way leads to madness.”

Petyr grunted in agreement, and turned to watch the sun come over the horizon. Behind him one of the sailors whistled while he was coiling rope, the song was unmistakable to Petyr as the old sea shanty “Leave her Johnny”, but the crew had never heard it until the day before when Petyr had gotten drunk with some of the crew and taught it to them. He had loved to sing, even if he wasn’t the best at it, and the slight invitation from the crew had been all he had needed to break into the sailors song, and even if it was a song they had never heard before they had picked it up quick enough.

‘Besides’ he thought with a slight smile ‘there are worse things to be remembered for.’

*******

They were finally blessedly off the ship, and after staying overnight in the dreary little town of Saltpans both Petyr and the Blackfish were now riding North towards the High Road. They had been able to get a pair of horses in the town, and while the Blackfish grumbled and complained about the quality of the mounts he had paid for them none the less. They had set off the next morning and they were told that it would be two days travelling to get to the High Road. After several hours the Blackfish called a stop near a roadside inn, and he told Petyr that they would be spending the night here before continuing on in the morning. The night’s sleep was uncomfortable, but it was a nice enough relief, and by mid-morning the next day the pair had reached the High Road. They had stopped for a quick lunch and afterwards as they had gotten their supplies and gear together, the Blackfish had presented Petyr with mail and a sword. He shrugged his way into the mail and took the sword from the Blackfish.

“Now I saw your fight against the Stark, and while from that I can see that your swordsmanship is somewhat lacking, if we get jumped by Mountain Men I’d rather have you with a sword in your hand distracting them than nothing.”

It was a rather simple arming sword, plain hilt and scabbard with some decent quality steel inside. Compared to the long sword that the Blackfish carried, it seemed almost pathetic, but for Petyr’s build a long sword would have been a ridiculous choice of weapon. He drew it out of the scabbard and gave it a few experimental swipes through the air, and then he felt the anger and humiliation at getting himself nearly gutted by Brandon Stark boil up inside him. Littlefinger was a decent enough swordsman, nothing to write home about but could probably hold his own in a desperate situation against any normal swordsman. His footwork wasn’t great, and his movements were sloppy but then again he was more of a thinker than a fighter. James Turner, well, some boys got into rugby or football or hurling at a young age to find some sort of hobby to get through their teenage years. James had gotten into historical re-enactment.

The Blackfish looked on with a bemused expression as he had swung the sword a couple of times, he had opened his mouth to say something but stopped when he saw Petyr change his stance. He stood poised for a moment and then launched into a flurry of moves that Littlefinger had known of in theory, and James had known in practice. His movements were still not perfect, and he came very close to losing his balance towards the end, but considering he was trying to do something from muscle memory that his body had never done before, it wasn’t a bad try, especially considering he had only ever used an arming sword once before, and that had been during a re-enactment of the battle of Clontarf that had seen him take a rubber arrow to the face. There was a sarcastic round of applause from the Blackfish who also chuckled as Petyr put the sword back in its scabbard and then affixed it to his belt.

“I’m impressed, if you had done any of those movements against the Stark you might not have gotten the shit kicked out of you as badly. Then again the Stark might have decided you were a more worthy opponent and fought more aggressively in that case. Mayhaps even you held back so that you wouldn’t be killed but still fulfil your delusional sense of honour?”

Petyr just winked at him, the truth was that he had probably shown off a bit too much, but getting the anger and humiliation of that event out of his system felt good and he hadn’t quite realized how much it had been boiling up in the back of his mind the last few days. The Blackfish could believe whatever he wanted to believe, right now Petyr just wanted to get moving again as for the first time since he got here he felt that he was in a genuinely good mood.

“Well hopefully we won’t run into any Mountain Men anyway.”

Petyr turned and looked at the Blackfish and just stared at him.

“Why? Why did you have to say that?”

*******

They spent that night in another little roadside inn, and in the morning they would make their way up the High Road, a journey that should only take about half a day unless they got stuck in a snow drift. Much to Petyr’s relief they had not been attacked after the Blackfish had decided to tempt fate, and as they came up the High Road towards the last bend in the road before they would come to the Bloody Gate he felt somewhat safe and sighed contentedly. Which meant of course that was the moment the Mountain Men had decided to try and jump them.

He had heard the arrow coming in and instinct had told him to move and call out to the Blackfish. The Blackfish had his sword out already before Petyr had been able to yell out his alert, and luckily the arrow missed both of them. He then heard the roar as three men on foot armed with an eccentric mixture of wood and bronze weapons came running at them. The Blackfish didn’t even hesitate and urged his horse into a charge against the three men, the very essence of a man preparing to do a job with deadly efficiency. Petyr kept his horse moving but was for all intents and purpose rooted to the spot, he didn’t remember drawing the arming sword, but he had it in his hand even though indecision was keeping him from acting. He watched in morbid fascination as the Blackfish caught a blow from one of the Mountain Men’s crude axes on the edge of his sword, he pushed the axe back and thrust his sword into the man’s lightly armoured chest before wheeling his sword away from the other two men to get distance between them. He turned the horse back around and got ready to charge again, blood dripping from his sword. One of the two remaining men lifted a sharpened piece of wood and went to throw it like a spear, but the Blackfish dodged it with ease and charged in at the two men. He used the horse to knock one of them onto the ground while he focused his sword on the man that was now without a weapon in his hands. The man tried to dodge but the Blackfish caught him across the neck with a slash of his sword. The third man started to get up and the Blackfish ran him through from behind.

Petyr felt he was going to get sick, the way he had just seen three men die, but he didn’t have the time to do so as the fourth Mountain Man, with his bow across his back, came roaring out of his nearby hiding position and charged at Petyr with a club in his hand. Petyr knew the Blackfish was too far away to do anything, and that he didn’t have enough time to try and get away from this man, so he did the only thing he could do, he charged him. He tried to parry the club blow on his sword, and the impact from the blow nearly saw him lose the weapon, but he kept the blow from making any serious contact with him. The man was bringing it back around and with a yell of exertion Petyr moved his arm with all of his strength to try and slash at the man’s head. He succeeded and a spray of blood erupted from where he managed to get the sword stuck in the man’s skull at an angle. Petyr let go of the sword and the man fell forward onto the ground, and then Petyr was sick.

When he finished retching he found the Blackfish standing over the man Petyr had killed, he placed a hand on the hilt of the sword and a foot on the corpse, and with a grunt he pried it loose of the man’s skull.

“Here you go Mockingbird, don’t feel ashamed that you threw up, most men do when they kill someone for the first time. Same if you soiled yourself, any man says he didn’t soil himself in his first real fight is a liar.”

Petyr wordlessly took the sword with shaky hands, and after two or three tries got it into its scabbard. The older man moved the bodies off to the side of the road and took the bronze weapons from their bodies, he muttered something about not leaving them to be used again and the pair continued on although Petyr found staying in his saddle harder than before. He had just killed a man, self-defence or not he had just taken another man’s life, and the heat of the man’s blood meant that this was actually real. This wasn’t some serious hallucination, the pain in Riverrun, the heat of the man’s blood, all of it. It all meant that it was real, and the realization was terrifying. He just sat in his saddle lost in his thoughts until they reached the Bloody Gate when the Blackfish placed a hand on his back.

“It will take you a while to get used to it lad, even took me a while when I first killed a man. But if you start to do nothing but dwell on it you will go mad, so try and find something else to do with your mind and it will get better, trust me Petyr.”

Petyr looked at the older man who had genuine concern and warmth in his eyes, and despite himself he smiled. He might not ever get used to having killed another man, or this strange world he was now in, but if he did nothing but mope on the issue it would rip him apart faster than letting Littlefinger out of the cage would. They rode towards the gate until they were challenged.

“Halt! Who seeks passage through the Bloody Gate?”

Petyr waited for the Blackfish to speak, and then he realized that the Blackfish was waiting for him, as technically Petyr being a Lord meant he outranked him and was supposed to go first. Petyr cleared his throat and spoke.

“Gentlemen, I have the honour of introducing Ser Brynden Tully of the Riverlands. A warrior of great renown who fought with distinction in the war of the Ninepenny Kings, and he has come from Riverrun to seek an audience with Lord Jon Arryn.”

The guards at the wall looked at the Blackfish, who was now looking at Petyr. Petyr hoped he hadn’t offended the man, but a combination of the memories spent travelling with him as well as all of the fond memories Littlefinger had of him as an almost fatherly figure during his wardship in Riverrun, meant that Petyr just couldn’t bring himself to introduce himself before him, whether he outranked him or not.

“And you Ser? Who would you be?”

“My name is Lord Petyr Baelish. And I have come to seek an audience with my banner lord.”


	4. Chapter 4

****

**Chapter 4**

**Petyr III**

“Well I’m afraid Lord Arryn is not here.”

The response caught Petyr off guard. The Blackfish had assured him that they would make it to the Bloody Gate, and after that either the Gates of the Moon or the Eyrie itself after Jon Arryn’s party came back from Harrenhall. Beside him the Blackfish let out a low chuckle.

“It appears we made better time than I thought Mockingbird, I don’t know how long we will have to wait but we will just have to cool our heels. Or at least I will, you could probably slink back home now.”

“And return to the Drearfort without first presenting myself before my banner lord? I think I’d rather not compound the dishonour I’ve already brought upon myself through my actions.”

The Blackfish snorted in acknowledgment and they both turned their attention back to the Knight of the Gate who had patiently watched the exchange between the two.

“If it pleases you both, I will allow you passage to the Gates of the Moon where you may await Lord Arryn, that is of course if you are who you claim to be.”

That struck Petyr as slightly off, normally in the show and books if a person claimed they were Lord Smith of Smith-town no one batted an eyelid at them. Which as he thought about it actually made sense, normally due to royal functions and tournaments the various members of the major nobility would know each other at least in passing. Members of the major houses would at least be known by reputation by the people who needed to know of them, but for members of the lower nobility like Petyr, proof was going to be needed. He saw the Blackfish reach into his saddle bags and produce a bundle of assorted letters, he sorted through them for a moment and found one that was sealed with the Tully family seal. He then looked at the Knight of the Gate.

“This letter carries the seal of Hoster Tully, and its contents verify who I am. If that is not good enough we are willing to wait here until you can summon someone to confirm who we are. If you would be gracious enough however to let us past the gates I would appreciate it, we have run into mountain men on the way here.”

He emphasized the last point by holding up, in a non-threatening manner, one of the bronze axes they had taken from the earlier would be ambushers. There was some muttered swearing from the various men garrisoning the fortifications next to the gate.

“We had reports that the clans had been getting adventurous again, but an attack on the High Road is always cause for concern. I recognize the sigil Ser Tully, and if you will vouch for your accomplice I will accept that he is Lord Baelish as he claims to be.”

“I vouch that he is whom he claims to be. I have known him for most of his life.”

The Knight of the Gate turned to look at Petyr.

“Well then my apologies my lord, I regret having to make certain but I can never be too careful about my duties.”

Petyr smiled warmly.

“But of course Ser…”

He trailed off in the hope of learning the man’s name, Littlefinger’s memories were coming up blank.

“Ser Vardis Egen my lord.”

It took a moment, but he pictured the knight as a bit older and realised he would be the same man Bronn would kill in a trial by combat to defend Tyrion Lannister.

“Well Ser Egen I assure you that I do not hold your vigilance against you. May we continue on our journey?”

“Certainly my lord you may” Ser Egen paused “Actually my lord could we trouble you to take a message with you? It is addressed to Maester Ceredig and we would send our own man, but you are going to the Gates anyway.”

“Certainly Ser Egen, I shall deliver into the Maester’s hands myself.”

As Ser Egen fetched the letter for the Maester, the Blackfish had the various weapons he had collected from the mountain men taken off him. In return he was given four silver stags.

“What are these for?”

The man who had taken the weapons, and paid him the money didn’t even look up from the barrow he was starting to push.

“Standard bounty for mountain men attacking travellers, one stag per bandit, shame you didn’t bring them in alive, we’ve been known to give bonuses for getting to have some fun before they dance.”

He pushed his cart off and the Blackfish turned to Petyr, he flicked the coin through the air to him and Petyr caught it, he then raised a quizzical eyebrow at the Blackfish.

“Fair is fair. You killed one of them so that’s your cut.”

The image of a dead mountain man appeared before Petyr and he had to fight to keep from retching, but with a couple of deep breaths he was over it again. He pocketed the coin with a nod to the Blackfish, and then realised that this one silver stag was probably all the money he had. The Blackfish had been covering their costs up till now, and while it was likely they would be guests in the Gates for the few days it would take Jon Arryn to return, after that Petyr would be on his own. He probably earned some money in taxes off of the people that were ostensibly his, but considering Baelish had relied on serious corruption and criminal enterprises to make his money, it seemed unlikely that his lands were going to give him a lot. He was snapped from his thoughts by the return of Ser Egen who handed him a letter, it was sealed with blue wax baring a sigil of a crescent moon, a star and a sun.

“I do appreciate you doing this my lord, and once again I apologize for doubting who you were.”

Petyr took the letter with a smile and accepted yet another apology, and with that he and the Blackfish were off in the direction of the Gates.

*******

The journey to the Gates was done in silence, the two men were comfortable enough in it, and Petyr was glad of the opportunity to get lost in his own thoughts. The first thought he had to try and tackle was the fact that the fictional world he was now in was very much real, again the feeling of warm blood and a dead man appeared and he shrugged it off, this was the world of Game of Thrones, he was going to see a lot more dead people while he was here. His mind then turned to the matter of what the hell he would do here, after all it was very unlikely that he was just going to wake up in his bed and find out it was all a dream.

‘Well what the fuck am I supposed to do here then? Go after the world’s most uncomfortable chair?’

He thought about that, and decided that would be a stupid move. In theory he could, hell if he spent his time here as Littlefinger 2.0 it would be child’s play to actually pull it off.

‘That of course is assuming everything goes the same as what you know.’

That was true, Petyr knew almost nothing of the world before episode 1 of season 1, and while Littlefinger’s mind had the information he would need to survive the day by day of the world he was in, everything until Robert showing up at Winterfell being all “Hey Jon Arryn is dead and Ned I want you to take over my responsibilities for me ok?” was a complete unknown. Robert’s Rebellion would be happening soon, and all the R+L=J theorists meant that Petyr at least knew why that would be happening, the when and how where totally different matters. And even if everything did go the same way, why would he want that uncomfortable hunk of metal under him? Littlefinger’s motivations were easy to understand, he was a bitter little sociopath that wanted revenge.

‘Sure it was revenge for a decent enough reason, but maybe he had gone a little too far in his…wait a second, a decent reason? Oh no it was not, you got upset that your crush didn’t reciprocate your feelings and in return decided to set the world on fire.’

He looked at the Blackfish.

‘And then there is your role in this Ser Blackfish.’

As far as Petyr knew, the Blackfish hadn’t travelled with Petyr back to the Vale in the books, and considering this period wasn’t covered by the show itself he would have to go off what little information he could remember from his reading of the books. Well, reading would be generous, skimming would be more accurate. From what he could remember, the Blackfish had turned completely against Littlefinger for being Littlefinger, and considering the memories Petyr had of the Blackfish being an almost father figure to him, that would have taken a lot. Now though, the two were quite close, there travels had allowed Petyr to get his bearings in this world and the Blackfish had doubtless noticed that Petyr was different since his duel. If the Blackfish was here to keep an eye on Petyr and report back to Hoster, then so be it, let them all think that the duel knocked some sense into Petyr, because in a way it had.

“And here we are, the Gates of the Moon.”

The Blackfish called out while looking at the formidable looking fortress in front of them, he had a smile on his face.

“You can see the Eyrie from here, hopefully now we can rest in some comfort for a couple of days.”

“Only a couple of Blackfish? Planning on following me all the way back to the Drearfort when I leave?”

If he was going to get information on what he was doing here, now was the best possible opportunity.

“No Mockingbird, I have to await to see Jon Arryn and negotiate with him. That done I’m on orders to return to Riverrun as soon as I can, you are going to have to travel on to your home by yourself.”

The Blackfish paused and looked rather contemplative, he then turned to look at Petyr.

“That’s the second time you have called your home that, the Drearfort, why?”

“My home is a slightly oversized tower on a rocky outcrop in the least valuable piece of land in the whole Seven Kingdoms. It is windswept and often battered by foul weather. What meagre subsistence can be teased from the grounds it has is only barely worth the effort of getting it. It is a dreary place Brynden, and I do not long to return to it, I feel that my own foolishness means that I will never know a life like that at Riverrun again.”

He realised as he finished that he had spoken completely honestly, he didn’t look forward to moving to the Drearfort and its little lands. He might be able to find some way to improve his life there, but it was unlikely. He sighed heavily, sure his life would be better than that of the ordinary peasant in the here and now, but it didn’t promise to be much of a life.

The Blackfish didn’t answer him, instead he simply nodded and continued to lead him over the moat and into the courtyard of the Gates. The pair dismounted and handed their horses off to a waiting groomsman, that done Petyr stretch his muscles from the long day in the saddle. They were then led by a servant in the Arryn house livery into the main keep of the Gates and after a few minutes were shown into a medium sized room that was finely decorated. Waiting inside the room were two men, one a man near Petyr’s own age dressed in the colours of House Arryn. The other was a much older man who wore simple clothes and around his neck gleamed the chain of a Maester. The younger man stood to great them and spoke first.

“Lord Baelish, Ser Tully. My name is Ser Denys Arryn, I am the current Keeper of the Gates of the Moon, I welcome both of you in the name of my Lord Jon Arryn and recognize both of you as guests of the Gates until my Lord returns and can order me otherwise. Please be seated.”

Ser Arryn looked at Petyr, and reflexes drilled in by years of courtly training kicked in.

“Thank you Ser Arryn, your hospitality is gratefully accepted.”

Ser Arryn then looked at the Blackfish who also thanked him, and with the formalities done they all sat down.

There was a slight awkward silence in the room then, none of the men there knew what to say next it seemed, or at least they did but didn’t know who should go first. Petyr decided he should seize the initiative and turned to face the Maester.

“Maester Ceredig? I have a letter for you from the Bloody Gate, Ser Egen asked me to deliver it to you while I was on my way here.”

With that he handed the letter to the Maester who started to read it, his brow furrowed in concentration and he grunted as he finished it. He then turned to Ser Arryn.

“Denys, I’m needed down at the Bloody Gate. It appears one of the guardsmen slipped and broken his leg, the bonesetter down there doesn’t think he can do it properly so I’m needed. If I may depart?”

“Certainly Maester Ceredig, take as much time as you need.”

With that the Maester stood up and left the room. Ser Arryn looked at Petyr then.

“Thank you for delivering that message Lord Baelish. I have had quarters prepared for both of you and dinner will be served in two hours, if you wish I can have baths drawn for you to wash off the dust of the road.”

“I can’t speak for Ser Tully, but I would absolutely love a bath, thank you. Can I leave my clothes to be washed while I bathe? I only have the one set with me I’m afraid and I wouldn’t want to wear them as they are to dinner.”

“Certainly, if you wish I’m sure I can find some clothes for you for dinner? It wouldn’t be anything too fine but should be suitable for dinner.”

“Yes please.” Petyr then turned to the Blackfish “I will leave now and leave you free to discuss any business you have with Ser Arryn. I will see you at dinner.”

Petyr left the room then and a servant guided him to his room, where he was told to discard his clothes so they could be washed, he stripped down to his shirt and smallclothes. After that he was led to a room were a wooden tub was filled with steaming water, a brush and bar of soap were on a table next to the bath, on another table some clean clothes were neatly piled. He tested the water in the tub with his hand, once he found it agreeable he stripped out of the last of the clothes and lounged in the water. He lay there just relaxing in the water for a few minutes, and then ran his hand over the scar that covered most of his chest. It ran down from just below his neck to his belly button, and honestly made him think that he had undergone open chest surgery. It was still a fresh scar, but over time it would turn the same as any other scar. He was relieved that looking at it meant he didn’t have any sudden thoughts or impulses about how unfair life was, if every time he looked at it Littlefinger tried to take control, he would have a very long and difficult life. He totally immersed himself in the water holding his breath, when he came back out he scrubbed himself down, got dressed and prepared to go to dinner.

*******

He was awoken the next morning by a pail of cold water being dumped on him, as he jumped out of bed in a sputtering confused state he heard laughter. The Blackfish was standing nearby with a no empty pail in his hands and his face full of mirth.

“Rise and shine Mockingbird. We have training to get to.”

The words rang very loudly in Petyr’s head, and flashes of drinking and eating the night before started to try and arrange themselves. He knew he had probably drank a little too much the previous night, but to be woken up like this…

“Blackfish, tell me, how big of a fool did I make of myself last night?”

“Oh none at all. You got a bit into your cups, sure, but not to an embarrassing degree. Between you trying to teach a bunch of the younger men and squires an amusing song about “The one eyed Reilly” you asked if you could join in their training. The master of arms said you could, but only if I helped train as well. So get up, you will have time for a quick breakfast if you run.”

Petyr managed to get to the hall in time for a quick breakfast, and then he was outside getting suited up for a day of training. Luckily it was agreed on pretty quickly that Petyr was never going to be an armoured knight on horseback, so he didn’t need to try practicing on the lists, but the Blackfish said his swordsmanship wasn’t totally awful so that was how he found himself holding a training sword and facing a bigger squire.

The bruises were still healing as he walked into the Maester’s quarters. He had the rest of the day free, so he might as well try and find something to do to pass the time, and his mind was feeling decidedly under used these last few days. With a bit of pleading, the Maester was willing to loan him some books to read. Most of them were story books, but one of them was about travels in Myr, and from what Petyr could remember Myr was a sort of technologically advanced place compared to Westeros. Hopefully he would find something interesting as he read on it.

That was how the next week went for him, early morning training followed by reading and talking with the Maester until dinner. Truth be told it was a rather enjoyable life, and while a bit more active than his one in Riverrun, was similar to the way he had been living his life up until then. It was also helping him sooth the bridge between both sets of memories and personalities as both found something to enjoy or associate with. However at the end of the week, Jon Arryn and his party finally returned to the Gates of the Moon.


	5. Chapter 5

****

**Chapter 5**

**Petyr IV**

Petyr pulled the cloak around him in closer as the cold wind continued to blow through the main courtyard of the Gates. He stood off to the side next to the Blackfish and the other visitors to the Gates, a collection of Royces, Belmores and Waynwoods. They were off to the side of the main gathering of the household, led by Ser Denys, waiting for the procession of Jon Arryn to arrive into the castle courtyard and to greet him formally. He was cleanly washed and shaven, and while shaving was a challenge he preferred it over the patchy facial hair that had come through. If he cultivated it over years he should be able to turn it into Littlefinger’s trademark goatee, but he had no real interest in doing so. He had thoroughly enjoyed the last week he had spent here at the Gates, both his mind and his body felt properly exercised, and while he lacked the mass to be a very heavy fighter, the movements he had learned in another life were at least starting to feel more fluid and natural again.

The first horse of the procession entered the courtyard flying the banner of House Arryn, and behind it rode a man in lordly clothing sitting tall and proud. He instinctively knew that this man was Jon Arryn, and he joined the rest of the courtyard in kneeling to the man as he rode in, the only exception being the Blackfish who as a visiting knight merely bowed. The man dismounted and handed his reins to a waiting groomsman and called for them all to rise. Petyr stood while Jon turned to talk to Denys, there was a brief conversation between the two and Jon grabbed Denys’s arm in a familiar fashion and smiled at him. He then turned to Maester Ceredig and said something to him. Instead of focusing only on Jon Arryn, Petyr turned his attention to the rest of the people that had rode into the courtyard, and after a few moments he saw them. Robert Baratheon looked like an Arthurian hero, his hair was dark and his body looked youthful, but he moved with the easy grace of a muscular man and he was full of smiles and good spirits. He was also tall, but to Petyr’s chagrin, most men were tall to him. He turned his attention to the other man that strode beside him, free of the horse he had ridden.

Eddard Stark looked…well there was no other way to compare him, Eddard Stark looked like Jon Snow. Tall, dark hair, silent almost brooding features, but with eyes that held some warmth, and while Robert was acting in a boisterous manner, Eddard was simply quietly taking in their surroundings. Petyr couldn’t hear what he had to say, but he turned to another man behind him and started pointing things out to him. The third man, the one that Eddard was talking to, was roughly the same height as Petyr, but had ginger hair and a willowy build. He seemed a bit uneasy at his surroundings, and he was almost following Eddard’s exact footprints. He wasn’t young, well any younger than Eddard or Robert, and he wore a strange patterned cloak wrapped around himself, one that almost looked like camouflage. Petyr’s mind raced trying to put a name to the face, when he remembered, of all things, an AAR play-through of the GoT mod for Crusader Kings 2. In the AAR the man had been described as “a crannogman ninja”, and while Howland Reed looked unassuming and benign, he could quite possibly be the most dangerous man in the courtyard right now.

His attention was returned to Jon Arryn who was now walking over to the assorted guests. He stood before them and his eyes swept over the assorted people, they lingered on both Petyr and the Blackfish for a moment, before he spoke.

“Lady Royce, Lord and Lady Waynwood, Lady Belmore” he turned to each as he addressed them “I am glad to see you here. Lord Royce, and Ser Elbert are in my party and I welcome all of you to my house and offer you my hospitality.”

The representatives of the three Vale houses spoke there thanks as he turned to look at Petyr and the Blackfish.

“Ser Brynden Tully, your brother wrote ahead to me to inform me that you would be here, truthfully we expected to run into you on the road Ser Brynden.”

“We made better time than I thought we would my lord. Myself and Lord Baelish have been graciously accommodated by Ser Denys for a week while we awaited your return. That is not to say we have been idle guests my lord, I have assisted in the training of the squires while Lord Baelish has assisted Maester Ceredig.”

“Yes Ser Brynden, both Ser Denys and Masester Ceredig have also informed me as such. I of course offer you my full hospitality Ser Brynden.”

He then turned to look at Petyr, and it took all of Petyr’s self-control not to whimper and wilt in the man’s gaze. Instead he stood as strong as he could and respectfully bowed to Jon Arryn.

“Lord Baelish. You will stay for dinner, and afterwards we shall discuss certain matters.”

He spoke low enough that Petyr and the Blackfish could hear him, but them alone.

“Yes my Lord Arryn, I understand.”

With that Petyr bowed again while Jon Arryn turned away towards the main keep. The other various guests dispersed until it was just Petyr and the Blackfish standing in the courtyard. He let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding in, and beside him the Blackfish did the same.

“Well that went a hell of a lot better than I was expecting Mockingbird.”

“Aye Blackfish, I was certain that I would be getting marched up to the moon-gate in the Eyrie if he saw me.”

“Then why, pray tell, have you been hanging around here hoping to see him?”

“To do the right thing. Present myself to my banner-lord and let him know I am here before I slink off back to my little tower by the sea.”

“Aye fair enough. Well go get your gear together, just because the morning has been disrupted does not mean you are getting out of training that easily.”

Petyr hurried away to the training yard to get ready beside the squires, truth be told he had hoped that the training would be cancelled today, but while Maester Ceredig was going to be too busy it appeared that the training yard would still be in full swing. He strapped into the training armour, a breastplate over a hardened leather ringmail jerkin, and pulled on the hard leather gauntlets that he used when training. He picked up the training sword, a wooden arming sword for him, as well as a simple shield and went through the movements to loosen up his muscles as he walked with the squires out to the training yard. Once in the yard they were paired up with each other and sent to different parts of the yard to practice. Practice consisted of simple sparring with dulled weapons, and the first one to hit the ground or be struck in a manner that would be lethal in real combat was considered defeated. Every day was almost a tournament bracket as it continued to put the victors against each other until one was the best of the day, if you were defeated you would be paired off with another defeated trainee at your same tier. After the sparring the trainees were free to practice either on the lists, or archery.

Today’s first bout for Petyr would be against Albar Royce first today, the son and heir of Nestor Royce, and like his father he was a big lad. This was not the first time they had gone up against each other, he had been the very first squire that Petyr had gone up against a week ago. His uncle had once told him that nothing forged friendships between men quite like beating each other up, however he had warned him that nothing could make two men enemies quicker either. Luckily in the case of Albar, it was the former as the pair became somewhat friendly after the bouts against each other. They weren’t best friends, but considering the non-existent number of friends that Petyr had had before coming here, any amount of friendship was welcome.

“So Mockingbird” thankfully they had decided to call him that instead of Littlefinger “anywhere in particular you want tenderised today?”

“Well Aurochs” the name came from Petyr in one match pointing out he was large, powerful and dim “I was thinking my upper left arm could use some work. Or the big scar in my chest, your choice I suppose. Yourself?”

“If you can get me to the ground you can pick yourself, but considering your history on that front I rather doubt it.”

Petyr grinned and placed a helm on and took up position. Every time he had gone up against Albar so far, he had lost, today though he had a plan. He had spent the week watching how Albar fought, and over that time he had noticed a pattern. Today he would use that pattern against him.

“Prepare for combat.” called the voice of the Blackfish from his side of the training yard.

Petyr lifted his sword in salute, and Albar returned it.

“BEGIN.” Roared the Blackfish, and Petyr started moving.

Albar carried a wooden longsword, the blade meant that he had a greater reach on Petyr, so Petyr needed to close the distance. If he had it correct then Albar would attempt a slash from Petyr’s right, so he twisted and held up his shield. He was correct and he felt the impact of Albar’s sword hitting Petyr’s shield, but he couldn’t stop yet. He used the momentum from turning with his shield to keep turning, and once able he started moving towards Albar again. He threw his arm forward in a weak attempt at a stab, but Albar recovered and brought his shield up to intercept the stab that Petyr attempted, as the point of Petyr’s arming sword glanced off the shield he brought his sword in a downwards slash. The point of the stab was not to succeed, but to goad Albar into trying for the slashing attempt, Petyr lifted and swung his left arm with his shield as hard as he could into the downward sword at an angle to get it to move just slightly. It did and while Albar’s arm moved away from Petyr he used the momentum of his own sword being knocked away to whip around and clatter into the back of Albar’s helm. He didn’t hit with all his force, but it was enough to cause his arm to ring a bit when it connected.

“ALBAR, OUT!” came the voice of the Blackfish to the side and the young Royce took off his helm, he gingerly touched the back of his head with a finger and winced, the helmets were rather thin.

“Bloody well done Petyr. How the hell did you pull that off?”

“I paid attention to how you fought over the last week” Petyr smiled at his friend “I knew that you would try to go with a downward slash if I got close and tried to stab you. I put just enough into the stab attempt so that you wouldn’t think it a feint, and once I saw the downward blow coming I knew I had to knock your arm away.”

“Bloody hells, I should have known that someone who regularly spends time in the company of a Maester shouldn’t be underestimated.” Albar smiled as he started to walk towards the side of the yard.

“Who me? Underestimated? Whoever underestimates a mockingbird?”

“Well done Lord Littlefinger well done. It appears when you are facing an equal you actually possess some modicum of talent after all.”

He turned to face the voice that spoke from behind him, and when he did he saw Robert Baratheon standing staring at him, in his right hand a cup was held.

‘Christ, hitting the sauce early aren’t you Bobby B?’ he thought to himself, to the older man he simply replied

“Can I help you Lord Baratheon?”

“Aye you can, you can stay right there while I go get full armour and beat you into a pulp you little shit. You dare to question the honour of one of the most ancient houses in Westeros? You dare claim that the man who will be my goodbrother wasn’t good enough for Lord Tully’s daughter? You, who are nothing more than a jumped up little ship from a rock next to the sea think you had the right to disparage the house of my betrothed?” He was pissed and he threw the cup away while he stared at Petyr, his other hand was by his hip, where Petyr noted he had a sword. Petyr might be in armour, but if this got bad Robert Baratheon could still overpower him, and with just a wooden practice sword Petyr would be doomed.

“Lord Baratheon, please, I understand my foolishness in the matter and I came rather close to dying over the issue. It was settled between Lord Brandon and I, so I have to ask what you hope to gain here?”

“What do I hope to gain? I hope to make you understand your place. Brandon may have spared you, but I will not.” His hand began to move towards the sword, and Petyr moved his feet to prepare himself. He was sure this would end badly and the best he could hope would be to hold out until either the Master at Arms or the Blackfish could rescue him. Speaking of the slippery bastard, where was he?

“ROBERT THAT IS ENOUGH.” Came a roaring voice and both Petyr and Robert turned to face it. Eddard Stark came striding over the training grounds, Howland Reed not far behind him and the Blackfish close by as well.

“The hell it is Ned. This little shit disrespected your household and dared to challenge his betters. His issue with Brandon is settled, but I will be dammed if I will let him question your house’s honour.” Robert had turned to look at Eddard, but he had moved his hand away from his sword.

“Robert, please. It is the issue of my house and my brother, let the issue lie Robert, Brandon already settled it and there is no reason for you to dig it up, please.”

Robert looked from Eddard to Petyr, finally after a moment he made a decision.

“Fine Ned, for your sake I will” he then turned to face Petyr “but if you ever seek to question the honour of House Stark, I will gut you myself you Lord Littlefinger” and with that he stormed off away from the training yard.

“Lord Baelish” came the voice of Eddard Stark “I would hope you can forgive Lord Baratheon. My friend can get excitable when he is in his cups, and while I cannot admit to being perfectly content to your presence, his actions were in the wrong.”

“Certainly Lord Stark, I understand. I will not hold his actions against him or anyone else, he was merely reacting to my own foolishness, and I am the only one to blame for any outcome that may come from it.”

Eddard seemed surprised to see Petyr admit that his actions had been foolish, but instead of saying anything he merely nodded and turned away, Howland Reed in his shadow as they left the training yard.

“Well I’ll be dammed. It appears some of the diplomacy my brother taught you must still be in there Petyr.” Said the Blackfish as he came to stand beside him.

“What can I say Ser Brynden, it got knocked loose when I was nearly gutted.”

*******

Dinner that night had a jovial atmosphere as it was more of a feast than anything else, and even though Petyr sat as far away from Jon Arryn as proper etiquette would allow, he managed to enjoy himself. Once the main dishes were out of the way he settled himself in with the group of squires that made up his friends, and even though they tried to get him to drink he stuck to his small-beer. At the head table Jon Arryn was conversing with both Ser Denys and the man that he was sure was Lord Yohn Royce. At the table next to it Robert Baratheon was drunk and sitting next to Eddard Stark, he was clearly joking about something to Eddard, but while Eddard smiled along the smiles rarely reached his eyes. Petyr found himself needing to empty his bladder so he excused himself from his friends and made his way towards the privy. The privy was cold, damp and stank worse than any toilet he had ever seen, not for the first time he found himself missing the virtues of proper indoor plumbing, and as he finished his business he started back towards the main hall, he got three steps before he saw movement out of the corner of his eye to show that there was someone else there, he stopped to turn and face the individual, and found himself face to face with Howland Reed, the crannogman stood in silence staring at Petyr, and eventually Petyr spoke.

“Lord Reed, can I help you with something?” For a second, the surprise that Petyr knew who he was, was in Howland’s eyes, but as quickly as it appeared it was gone.

“Do you hold some sort of grudge against my Lord Stark?”

He asked the question low and with total severity, his eyes didn’t waver from Petyr’s as he did and while his hands were by his sides, Petyr didn’t doubt for a second that the man could kill him with just those.

“No Lord Reed, I have no grudge against Lord Eddard Stark, nor do I have one against the House of Stark in general. My disagreement was with Lord Brandon, and it was settled. I was foolish and I acted with stupidity I admit, but it was between he and I alone.”

The other man continued to stare him in the eye, until eventually he spoke again.

“You are telling the truth.”

It wasn’t a question, it was a statement, and while Petyr was feeling more and more nervous in this man’s presence, he realised that if he was anything like his son Jojen would be, he probably had access to some of the very little magic left in this world.

“Yes I am. I wish nothing but happiness and a good life to Lord Stark, and now if there is nothing else Lord Reed?”

The other man continued to stare at him, but he eventually moved to allow Petyr to pass, and as Petyr left he was very grateful that the man had intercepted him after his visit to the privy.

*******

He waited outside the room that was Jon Arryn’s solar, and he felt very much like a young boy who had been sent to the principal in school. He could hear voices inside the room, and as the door opened he heard a snatch of the end of whatever conversation had been going on in there.

“…Elbert will have to agree when he arrives there but you may tell Lord Tully that I consent to the proposal.”

The door opened completely and the Blackfish saw him as he left Lord Arryn’s solar, he winked at Petyr and turned towards Jon Arryn.

“With your leave I will send a raven in the morning before I set out? Also with regards to that other matter?”

Jon Arryn looked from the Blackfish to Petyr and back.

“Yes tell Maester Ceredig I gave you permission to send a raven in the morning, as with regards to the other matter I will keep it in mind and see how it develops. Lord Baelish come in here please.” As the Blackfish moved out of the doorway Petyr rose from the chair he had been sitting in and went to enter the other room.

“Good luck.” the Blackfish murmured and then he closed the door behind him leaving Petyr and Jon Arryn alone.

“Lord Baelish take a seat.” Lord Arryn pointed at a chair opposite the desk that he now went to sit behind, and as Petyr sat down, Lord Arryn stared at him. He sat silently in the chair and awaited the older man to start the conversation, and after a few minutes the man finally spoke.

“Tell me Lord Baelish, do you remember the last time we met?”

He had to think about it for a moment, but once he did the memory came forward.

“Yes, it was nine years ago. I was with my father and we passed through the Eyrie while I was on my way to be fostered at Riverrun. I remember being terrified of the climb up to the castle, and my father presented us to you and informed you of where I was going. I must admit I don’t remember exactly what you said to me, but I remember you being happy about my being fostered in Riverrun.”

Jon Arryn nodded “Yes I was. Your father had fought bravely during the Ninepenny Kings war, and the thought that his son would be rising enough in the world to be being fostered by one of the great families filled me with hope of your future. You left my hall a young boy and by all accounts were a good foster child to Lord Tully. However you decided to throw it all away because you felt you better understood who deserved to be married to Catelyn Tully than her father or anyone else involved in arranging that betrothal.”

‘Yes because you needed to secure the Riverlands in case you have to go against the Mad King. I didn’t know it at the time of course, but I came dangerously close to destroying all of your plans.’ He had a week to piece it together, and between what he knew of the upcoming rebellion against the Targaryens, and the political education he had received he had been able to start piecing things together. However if he said that he would be practically signing his own death warrant.

“Yes my lord, I realise now that I was a complete fool to do so, and if I could go back and prevent myself from such thick-headed stupidity I would. However I cannot, all I can do now is hope to move on from the event. I will not wear it as a badge of honour, but I cannot simply put aside my mistakes of the past and not learn from them.”

Jon regarded him in silence for a while again.

“I had time to converse with Ser Vardis on the way up here. He says when you passed through the Bloody Gate you and Ser Brynden had killed four Mountain men, he also informed me that he gave you a letter to give to Maester Ceredig. Maester Ceredig told me that the first piece of business you conducted here, even before asking for guest rights from Ser Denys, was to get that letter to him. He also informs me that for the past week you have been hounding him with questions and debates, not that he minds as he finds the conversation rather refreshing. I am informed by Lord Nestor Royce and his son that your time as a foster child was not wasted and that you show some skill at combat. I was also informed of a, altercation, during the training today between Lord Robert and yourself.”

“I would not call it an altercation my lord. Lord Robert had been drinking and said some things like men who drink are want to do. I take no offence from it and I do not see it as an issue.”

Jon Arryn raised an eyebrow at him, but he then did something unexpected, he smiled.

“Yes, my ward does have a habit of saying things when he is in his cups. Finally I should say to you that Ser Brynden has made a rather impassioned plea on your behalf. He informs me that outside of this one incident of your gross stupidity, you are normally a bright young man that shows good promise for the future. He told me that to let you sit out in the tower on your lands would be a terrible waste of your abilities, and that I should try and find some place for you at my court. This corresponds with Maester Ceredgi’s opinion as well, and the tact you showed while dealing with the issue of Lord Robert makes me inclined to agree with them.”

His tone suddenly turned cold and the cheerfulness that the smile had brought ot his face disappeared “But know this Lord Petyr, if you make a single mistake, I will cast you away to your keep and I will not think twice of it. Do we have an understanding?”

“Yes my lord, I understand perfectly. Thank you my lord.”

“Good. I do not know what particular task I will assign you to yet, but for now you will continue to live as you have for the last week. You may leave.”

With that Petyr turned and left the room, he almost felt like he was floating with the relief he felt. He didn’t know what he would do with the future yet, but he knew that the Drearfort would not be a good place to try and figure out what to do.

*******

That night he had a dream, it was a surprisingly pleasant dream when he considered the content of it.

_He stood on a stage in front of Baelor’s Sept and before him a crowd was roaring in a pure emotional mixture of joy and bloodlust. He walked from one side of the stage over to the thing that they were here to see, it was a guillotine. He turned and nodded to the guards nearby and the forms of the various Lord-Paramounts of the realm were escorted at spear point across the stage to stand beside the guillotine. He held up his hands for silence and the crowd stilled, although the air was still filled with the emotion._

_“You gentlemen that would call yourselves our masters” he spoke loud enough for his voice to carry “you would deny us our rights as people. You would keep us in a place so that the comfortable lives you enjoy would remain. You have all been found guilty of the highest treason of all, treason against the people of the Seven Kingdoms. For this, there is only one punishment. Death. If you have any final words, speak them now.”_

_He tuned out the final words, Tywin Lannister had been calm and prayed for the realm, Mace Tyrell had screamed and swore at the crowds, Hoster Tully had said he regretted ever taking him in, Jon Arryn echoed that sentiment, Balon Greyjoy simply screamed about what was dead could never die, Prince Doran just screamed, Stannis and Renly cursed their brothers foolishness for giving Petyr power, and Eddard Stark just went silently. As the heads rolled and the blood poured like a river he simply dipped a cloth that was already partially dyed black and green in the red to fill the last part of the tricolour._

_“NOW SOLDIERS OF THE REPUBLIC OF WESTEROS! LET’S KILL THAT LAST TARGARYEN BITCH!”_

He awoke with a start. How could he have enjoyed that dream? How could he have found it to be anything less than a nightmare? Finally he cursed and realised what was bloody happening, once again Littlefinger was leaking into his mind, and it was starting to get tiring. That aspect of himself had been quiet the last week, but maybe it had been the confrontation with Robert Baratheon had set it off again. But gods dammit the hormonal angst of the 17 year old was starting to get very annoying, but fine, if revenge was the only way that Petyr could placate that section of his personality, then revenge he would have. He would have the best type of revenge, after all he knew that the best kind of revenge was to live well. He didn’t need a bloody metal chair for that, he would just need to have a better life than anyone thought he would have, right now his holdings were little more than a couple of small villages, some sheep, and an over-sized round tower. He was Petyr fucking Baelish, he had at his disposal both the memories and personality of the second sneakiest bastard in Westeros, and a man who had come from a totally different world. If he couldn’t get somewhere in this world, then something had to be dreadfully wrong with him.

“Chaos is a ladder” he muttered to himself “and an opportunity to climb it, is coming soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, throwing this in here as while I'm posting these up in batches, this is the beginning of my terrible "John/jon" habit when writing.
> 
> I keep mixing the two up, so if you come across them, I beg indulgence until all 40 chapters are up before I get called out on it.


	6. Chapter 6

****

**Chapter 6,**

**Eddard I**

It had been little over a month since Ned had returned from the tournament at Harrenhall. For the most part life was the same as it had been before the tournament, and for that he was eternally grateful. He had been worried that Prince Rhaegar’s actions during the crowing of the Queen of Love and Beauty would bring some sort of complexity to his life, luckily outside Robert’s occasional grumblings, things were fine. He would wake up early in the morning and pray at the small godswood that there was in the Gates. With that done he would break his fast with either Robert or Howland, usually Howland as Robert normally had to be roused quite energetically to get him out of bed. With that done he would take in his morning training in the practice yard, and then he would be free to go with Robert and get up to whatever entertainment Robert would have arranged for them that evening. Normally that meant carousing, and while Ned didn’t mind drinking with his friends a little, he drew the line short of where Robert would go. Howland would join them drinking as well, but normally excused himself early into the night and Ned usually found that the perfect excuse to head back to his chambers when Howland left.

“You know whats we neesh to do Ned?” Robert had drunkenly said to him one night “We neehds to get one over on the Littlefinger. Nothing serioush I promise, but something.”

Ned frowned at his friend, he didn’t particularly like that Lord Baelish was staying at the Gates as well, but the younger man was always polite to Ned whenever the two met and he clearly didn’t hold a grudge against Ned. However, a little bit of a prank at his expense could be fun.

“I have to admit my Lord” came the voice of the crannog Lord from beside him “I think that would be rather reminiscent of the squires of Sers Frey, Blount and Haigh. The younger man has recognized his foolishness and seems to wish to leave it in the past.”

“Bah, you frog-eater. You has no ballsh for thish sort of thing, it would only be a minor jape. Maybe take that damned lute hesh been playing with, mess wisth the stringhs.”

Ned smiled at the mention of Baelish’s lute, the man seemed almost obsessed with the damned thing and could usually be found somewhere in the Gates everyday working on it or tuning it. However while Robert debated back to Howland, Ned thought on what Howland had said. The squires had been the three to shame Howland during the tournament, and his retaliation against the three knights to whom the squires were sworn still brought a smile to Ned’s lips.

“No Robert, I say we leave him be. If my brother left him alive than as far as he is concerned the issue is settled, pulling japes at his expense would do nothing but make us little more than petty tormentors, and I’m sure we could find better uses for our time.”

“Oh I’m shure you could, but alash Lady Dayne isn’t here.” Robert replied with a drunken smile and his eyebrows raised in a knowing manner.

In response Ned simply punched his friends arm as hard as he could, Robert yelped but looked at his friend and smiled.

“Oh? Did I manage to gets through the armour of the Quiet Wolf and hit home with that comment?”

Ned simply smiled at him.

*******

The next morning as they trained, Ned was called aside be Ser Denys and Robert was told to pair himself off with someone else to train. His friend smiled widely and Ned knew who he was going to pick before they even turned around.

“Oh Lord Baelish? Would you mind helping me with my sparring?”

Ned couldn’t stop him, not when he was called aside and with Ser Denys looking so stern. Normally Ser Denys was a joyful man, and Ned was honoured to count him as among his friends, but today he looked at Ned with serious concern in his eyes and not a trace of the usually cheerful expression on his face.

“Ser Denys, is something the matter?”

“Aye Ned. But it is not my place to tell you, follow me, Lord Arryn will tell you.”

Ned followed the older man in silence, and when he saw Howland Reed starting to approach to follow he waved Reed down, whatever this was, it was probably a private concern or else Lord Arryn wouldn’t have summoned him aside like this. Upon arrival at Lord Arryn’s solar Ser Denys just knocked on the door, checked to make sure there was no-one else in the room and allowed Ned in before leaving himself.

“Ned, please take a seat.” Lord Arryn spoke with no pre-amble and simply gestured to the other chair beside the man’s hearth. As Ned sat down, Lord Arryn poured wine into a cup and handed it to Ned.

“Lord Arryn, what is this about?”

“Always so proper Ned, I’m so proud of the man I’ve helped make you become. For this meeting I would ask you call me simply Jon.” Lord Arryn, no, Jon spoke with a tired smile, he then drank from his own cup of wine and then sighed. He reached into his jerkin and produced a roll of paper and handed it to Ned to read. Ned cautiously took the piece of paper and read it, and as he did he felt the blood in his veins turn cold.

It was a letter from his father to Jon, it said that his brother Benjen had seen his sister Lyanna being kidnapped by Rhaegar Targaryen. It outlined how his brother Brandon, upon hearing about this, flew into a fit of rage and that he and his companions that were supposed to be going to Riverrun for his wedding, were now in King’s Landing after going there to demand Lyanna’s release and return. His father wrote that he had been summoned to King’s Landing to answer for Brandon’s actions, and that he hoped to be able to resolve this issue peacefully. It ended asking Jon to keep Ned safe while this was taken care of, and to show him this letter so that he could know what was going on. Ned reached for his cup of wine and drained it, wordlessly Jon took it from him and refilled it.

“I must go to my father Lord Arryn, I must be with him and help him.”

“I’m afraid I can not permit that Ned. Your father has tasked me with keeping you safe, and that means keeping you here. Hopefully this situation can be resolved easily, and your sister can be returned to Winterfell with no issues arising.”

Jon paused for a moment and looked around the room.

“I also felt that it would be best to inform you of this situation before I inform Robert. The kidnapping of his betrothed is no trivial matter, and while he is betrothed to her, she is still your sister first.”

“Thank you..Jon” he had to actively remind himself to call the man that “If you wish I will inform Robert myself.”

“No lad, I would not put that burden on your shoulders. But if you feel your presence might help him when I inform him, well then you are welcome to stay here.”

“I will.”

Jon just nodded at him and opened the door to reveal Ser Denys who was waiting outside.

“Fetch me Robert please Denys.”

Without a word Ser Denys went to get Robert, and after a couple of moments he returned with Robert. Robert was smiling and in a good mood as he looked at Ned.

“NED” he roared in a cheerful voice “you missed it. I beat Lord Littlefinger with the training sword till he yielded.” He looked thoughtful for a moment “Credit where it is due though, he put up a better fight than I expected.”

“I would hope Robert that you are not giving my banner-lord a particularly hard time?”

“Of course not Jon, just the standard results of training. Now Ser Denys informed me that there was some business you wished to discuss with me?”

The good cheer drained out of Robert as he was informed of the situation, and by the time Jon was finished the man’s temper was in full force as he looked around the room for something to destroy.

“That no-good rotten scum-sucking poxed BASTARD.” He turned to Ned “I swear to you Ned, if your father can not get Lyanna back from that gods forsaken waste of a human being, then I will.”

“Thank you Robert. I hope it doesn’t come to that, but thank you.”

Jon had the two of them released from his room, and while Robert went to vent his anger and frustration in the training yard, Ned did the only thing he felt like doing. He went to the Godswood.

*******

Instead of seeing Howland Reed fall into step behind him, he more felt the man’s presence in an abstract sense. Not for the last time Ned was glad to have someone else from the North near him, as even in the Vale he sometimes felt like a foreigner for sticking to the Old Gods. Robert had come to pray with him a few times, but for Robert time praying to any gods was time that could be better spent chasing girls or wine. Howland at least came to pray with him, and the knowledge of how good a fighter Howland was helped to reassure him in these dark times. They rounded a corner towards the Godswood, when Ned heard of all things, singing coming from it.

_“Far over the misty mountains cold,  
To dungeons deep and caverns old,  
We must away, ere break of day,  
To find our long-forgotten gold._

_The pines were roaring on the height,  
The winds were moaning in the night,  
The fire was red, it flaming spread,  
The trees like torches blazed with light.”_

The singing was accompanied by lute music, and the song was fast and upbeat for such melancholy lyrics. He turned to look at Howland, wanting to be sure that he was also hearing this music, and he saw the other man smiling.

“He often comes here to practice, quiet enough location where no-one would seek to find him. He has gotten better over the last two weeks.”

“Who?” Ned asked the question even though he was sure he knew the answer.

“Lord Baelish. When Jon Arryn doesn’t have him helping out Maester Ceredig with the castles manuscripts and books, he comes here to play his lute.”

“Why the Godswood? He is hardly a follower of the Old Gods.”

“He told me it reminded him of Riverrun, and that it was a quiet place where no-one would intrude on him.”

Ned nodded, after all the quiet solemnity of the Godswood was part of the reason why he was often drawn to it, in the quiet a person could communicate not only with the Old Gods, but with themselves.

“Tell me Howland, do you often talk to Lord Baelish?”

“Not often, but I do every now and again. He is an interesting young man once you get past your initial impression of him, and we are of an age he and I.”

“And a height.” Ned said with a smile, Howland was a short man, and while Lord Baelish was slightly taller than Howland, they were still somewhat short to Ned.

“Yes Ned, and a height. Although I don’t know how you managed to make such an observation from all the way up there.”

Despite all the news he had gotten that day, he laughed at Howland’s response and entered the Godswood. Young Lord Baelish sat under the foot of a tree away from the Weirwood tree at the center of the Godswood, and he looked up as he saw Ned and Howland enter the area. He made to stand up and gather his lute, as he did he looked at Howland and smiled.

“How long have you been listening today Lord Reed?”

“Long enough. You are definitely getting better.”

“Thank you, just trying to get used to playing the thing again. My hands are somewhat out of practice. I’ll leave you two be, Lord Reed, Master Eddard.”

“Lord Baelish, a question before you leave. What do you call that song?” Ned was curious and hoped the younger man wouldn’t be insulted.

“It’s a piece I’m working on. I call it Misty Mountains Cold.”

“I see, it appears you picked your sigil carefully then Lord Baelish.”

“Thank you Master Eddard, good evening to the two of you.” And with that the younger man departed and left Ned and Howland to stand among the trees. Eddard approached the weirwood tree and knelt before it, he started to pray in the hopes that the Old Gods would hear his plea.

‘Please. Please keep my father and brother safe. Let them do what they have to do and allow me to see them home again.’

*******

The dinner that night was a sombre affair. Seemingly everyone knew about what had happened to Ned’s family, and as Ned spied an obviously drunk Robert almost crying into a cup of wine, he was able to quickly figure out how. He ate his food, even though his stomach was tight and sore with worry. After a while he managed to get a rather fitful nights sleep, and in the morning he found himself going to the Maester’s quarters. Maester Ceredig looked at him sympathetically but told him that it would be weeks before they heard anything from King’s Landing about this situation. Ned thanked him and made his way to the Godswood to pray, repeating the same prayer he had offered the day before. He stayed in front of the Weirwood heart tree until long into the middle of the day when he went to break his fast, in the afternoon he returned to the tree. The whole time Howland walked with him, and whenever Robert saw him he simply repeated the promise to help Ned if help was needed. When he returned to the Godswood after finally eating something he came again across Lord Baelish sitting under a tree. Again when he saw them he stood up to leave, his lute in his hands.

This continued to be Ned’s life for the next two weeks. Every day he would wake from a fitful night’s sleep, pray, eat food at mid-day, return to praying until dinner, and then after dinner try to get a fitful night’s sleep again. He didn’t even remember which day it was when Lord Baelish stopped leaving the Godswood when he and Howland appeared, he honestly didn’t care. The younger man didn’t play his instrument, but simply sat in another part of the Godswood and watched him and Howland.

When he awoke on the 25th of Eighth Moon he went through his routine again, up to a point, and that point was when he had returned to the Godswood after finally breaking his fast. He knelt in front of the tree and started to pray again, off and behind him Lord Baelish and Howland stayed under a different tree, watching him. As he prayed he heard footsteps and he turned to face them, it was Jon with Maester Ceredig standing behind him. Both of them had hollow expressions, and even before Jon opened his mouth, Ned knew that his worst fears had come to pass.

“Ned, I’m-”

“Please Jon. How?”

Jon seemed taken aback at Ned’s cutting him off, but he took a breath and nodded. His eyes moved to where Howland and Lord Baelish were now standing.

“Maybe we should speak in private Ned.”

“Jon, whatever you tell me will be public soon enough. Let them stay, now tell me how.”

“Very well Ned. The Mad King ordered your father’s death for he and your brother accusing his son of kidnapping Lyanna. Your father demanded a trial by combat, and the Mad King responded by having him try to fight wildfire, he was tied to a stake and burned alive in his armour.”

Ned felt sick, but he force himself to ask the only other question that mattered to him right now.

“And Brandon?”

“He was chained by the neck and forced to watch. A sword was placed outside his reach for him to cut your father down with, but whenever he tried the chains around his neck would begin to strangle him. He died trying to save your father.”

This time Ned retched, he fell to his hands and knees and threw up all that he had eaten that day. As he retched the tears began, and Jon ignoring the bile that had come out of Ned took him in a strong embrace and held him while he cried. He didn’t know how long he cried, but eventually he felt himself start to come together again.

“Now what Jon?” he asked simply, in an almost childlike voice.

“The King has demanded I hand both you and Robert over to him in King’s Landing. I will not do such a thing. I intend to tell Robert and then send him home to Storm’s End to raise his banners, Ned we need you to go North and do the same.”

With an effort Ned stood up and looked at Jon Arryn.

“Very well Jon, myself and Howland will go North and we will get justice for my father, for my brother and for Lyanna.”

“Lord Stark.” He and Jon Arryn both turned to look at Lord Baelish who had now spoken, he was kneeling beside him while looking at him.

“My lord. I brought a great dishonour on me by my actions to your brother, and I swear to you by all Gods old and new that I would never have wished such a fate on him. I beg of you to please take me with you, let me hope to repay the debt that I owed your brother for sparing my life, let me come with you in this war. I do not have any banners to bring, I have only my own sword, but while it is only one sword it is one that shall be faithful to the end if you will have it.”

His face was set in a determined expression, and Ned looked at Jon whose face must have mirrored Ned’s own shock. Jon was Lord Baelish’s sworn-lord, and if Lord Baelish was to fight in this war at all it should be under Jon, not him. Instead for a moment Jon looked thoughtful, and then he nodded at Lord Baelish and took a step away from the exchange so that Ned would now know this was his matter to sort out.

He looked at the young lord, his face set in determination and an almost pleading expression in his face as well. He looked from him to Howland, and Howland gave him a slight nod.

“Arise Lord Baelish. I would be honoured to have you alongside me against whatever may come.”

And then something strange happened. A raven he hadn’t seen burst out from among the leaves of the Weirwood tree and started to fly off, its call as it flew away almost sounded like laughter.


	7. Chapter 7

****

Chapter 7

Petyr V

So far in his life in Westeros, he had travelled by boat and by horse. Both had been under the arguably best conditions, even with the attack by the Vale mountain clans it had been travel at its best. Now though, now he was absolutely terrified and was travelling by boat in the worst possible conditions. The fishing boat that he was on was caught in a storm, and Petyr was busy praying to anyone that would listen that they would survive, all the while the fisherman who owned the boat, and his daughter, worked to keep them afloat. It all began with the plan to get Ned Stark up to White Harbour by ship, this however had been scuppered by the bastards in charge of Gulltown pulling a West Virginia and rebelling against the rebels. Robert and Lord Arryn had gone with the army to seize the city, and the plan was to have Ned ride over the Mountains of the Moon and take ship from there. Ned was accompanied by Howland Reed on this journey, and due to his idiotic thinking in the Godswood, they were also being joined by Petyr. He still wasn’t entirely certain as to what had possessed him to swear his sword to Ned’s service in this war, although the knowledge that Jon Arryn wouldn’t keep him around forever and that Ned wouldn’t be immediately getting thrown into the war probably helped, but for whatever reason, it was done and so Petyr had been added to the very small Stark party.

This had actually been viewed as a good thing by Jon Arryn, after all Petyr had lands in the Fingers and hiring a boat for him would not be a difficult challenge. A letter was sent by raven to the Drearfort to expect their party and to find a local boat capable of bringing them to White Harbour. Littlefinger’s memories had revealed that there wouldn’t be room for anything large, but that a fishing boat should be doable. Littlefinger’s memories in general were being more co-operative as of late, and this meant that Petyr was being slightly more cautious about probing into those too deeply, one dream about Littlefinger’s version of the Westerosi Revolution was enough for him to realize that the memories were a two way street, and something of Littlefinger had to still be floating around in his mind. Their trip over the Mountains had gone well, and the three of them had made decent time. Ned was still clearly in shock and mourning, which no-one could blame him for, and so he had been somewhat withdrawn towards Petyr for the first few days. Over time though, conversation had started to flow, and while Petyr wasn’t anywhere near as good at playing a lute as he was guitar, his renditions of more than a few folk songs had earned a couple of smiles. Howland Reed was as unreadable as ever, and if it wasn’t for the fact that Petyr hadn’t once seen him react, he would almost swear the Crannoigman was taking joy out of sneaking up on him at night, and solidifying his reputation of “Swamp-Ninja”.

The arrival at the lands that were Petyr’s had been a strange affair, not because it had been particularly unusual but just the overwhelming sense of déjà vu that had washed over him as they passed through the area. It wasn’t just Littlefinger’s memories kicking in, but the memories of another world as the area that was “his” strongly resembled rural Cork. Granted there were no street lights, and everything was at a medieval technology level, but the buildings, the land and just the general vibe of the area was almost the same as any small rural village from Ireland. However while people from Cork were normally somewhat cheerful, the people that lived and worked on the lands of House Baelish were anything but. They were a dour people, and judging from the meagre lands they had to call home, Petyr couldn’t blame them. Still though, as they travelled through, and as they came to recognize who he was, Petyr took steps to be polite and courteous to them at all times. Being a peasant in Westeros could not be a fun existence, and if he had to guess a serf in Tsarist Russia wouldn’t be jealous of the lives these people had, so while he had no problems being polite to them in general, the people that were ostensibly “his” were due a courtesy slightly above and beyond.

If Ned or Howland had found this strange, they had kept their opinions to themselves, ditto about their opinions of the very modest accommodations they had for the night in the Drearfort. It was a simple round keep, of three floors and a cellar, the bottom floor was the servant’s rooms and kitchen, the second floor was the “hall” and the third floor was Petyr’s rooms. When he arrived he was greeted by the keep’s custodian, and grounds man, and groomsman, and a whole host of other jobs that in a great house would be done by multiple people, but in the Drearfort were carried out by one man, and that was Umfred. He was an older man with white hair and didn’t appear to be much better off than the peasants they had passed on the way here. After that the three other members of the household staff, Grisel the former wet-nurse turned maid and cook, Bryen, the captain of Petyr’s “guard” and Kella, the keeper of Petyr’s own flock of sheep. The meeting was brief, and honestly Petyr wanted it over and done with quickly, he hoped none of these people would see that he was not the same person he had been, and that any changes they noticed they would chalk up to his fostering. Once they had made sure that a boat would be ready on the first tide in the morning, Petyr had helped Ned and Howland get settled in for the night, and after a very simple meal of mutton, a fish soup and some vegetable that resembled carrots, they turned in for the night.

In the morning they had found a fishing boat ready to take them, it was crewed by a father and his daughter, and they were both peasants that lived in the small village on Petyr’s land. They helped the party get settled into the boat, and while the conditions were cramped, the three made sure to stay out of the way of the two man crew. The trip was going to take four days, nearly five if one bothered to count the hours, and after the first two hours when they round the finger North of Petyr’s own holdings, he was already starting to go stir crazy. Luckily he was by now somewhat used to travelling by boat, and even the increased rocking of the smaller vessel wasn’t worrying him too much. Howland Reed also seemed fine, or if he wasn’t well he was doing a very good job of hiding it. Ned Stark however…well he started off well and rapidly devolved into throwing up over the side of the boat, this was not something Petyr could picture the older Ned Stark he “knew” doing, and deep inside he found a sense of some satisfaction and schadenfreude at the mild suffering he was going through.

“I suppose I should be happy” Ned had said between bouts of throwing up on the third day of travel “if Robert was here he would be tormenting me making constant japes at my indisposition right now.”

“You are implying of course Ned, that he himself wouldn’t be joining you.” Petyr had won the “right” to call him Ned shortly after beginning their trip through the Mountains, which was fine by him if he was honest.

“No Robert would be fine, unless he got into his cups, and even then he would be cheery as the sun the whole time.” Ned smiled as he talked of his friend, but the smile was short lived as soon he was green in the face again and throwing up.

“Milord” that was Jardan the fisherman, and while Ned was the senior nobility in the boat, his addressing anyone as that could only mean Petyr “there’s dark clouds up ahead. Could be a serious squall, could blow over fore it gets to us, but either way I don’t like the look of it.”

Petyr stood up and made his way over to the man, he looked out where he was pointing and could see the dark clouds he was referring to.

“Is it possible for us to go around them?”

“I don’t see a way milord, we could try for one of The Sisters, we might reach Sweetsister by now, or we can buckle down and try to ride through it.”

“What do you think Ned?”

“The Sisters are not an option I would take lightly. We might be lucky, but we hadn’t received word of House Borrell declaring for our cause by the time we left, and I would really rather not wind up in a prison cell.”

“Understood, Jarden we are going to have to go through it I’m afraid. Is there anything we can do to help?”

“There is some things that will need tying down, if your lordships don’t mind giving Arenna a hand” he nodded towards his daughter “otherwise making sure you stay down and out of our way when it hits is the best we can hope for.”

Petyr nodded in acknowledgment, and as the clouds drew closer, he and Howland had helped Arenna tie down everything that needed to be tied down. As a precaution Petyr had used some of the excess rope to tie safety lines around himself, and the others. Jarden had been a bit anxious to humour his Lord’s request that he secure himself, but he did so anyway. Then they had sailed into the squall, and it had turned out to be much worse than they had thought. It was a full blown storm, and while a larger vessel might have been able to weather it, the small fishing boat was being tossed and thrown. Petyr, Howland and Ned were laying down across the wooden bottom of the boat, while above them Jarden and Arenna did everything they could to keep them going. Water lapped over the side of the boat, and several times Petyr had feared that they would take on too much water and drown, above them the skies flashed with lightning and the winds continued to howl. Petyr was sure they were going to die, there was no way they could survive. Absentmindedly he knew he was panicking, but there was nothing he could do, they were going to die for fuck’s sake. He felt a hand on his arm, and he looked over at it, and then up to Howland Reed, the Crannoigman gave him a brief smile and spoke, well roared over the wind.

“Don’t worry little mockingbird, we will be fine.”

As he said that the boat was lifted by a wave, and as it crashed back down he heard a scream come from Arenna’s direction. Petyr forced himself up some to see she was looking out into the water at a length of rope, Petyr looked for Jarden, but didn’t see him and he looked again at the rope and nearly felt sick. Jarden had been swept into the sea, but if they acted fast they might save him.

“NED, HOWLAND, GRAB THE ROPE AND PULL.”

He roared it at them, if Jarden was swept away the chances of them surviving this trip were significantly less, Arenna might be able to get them through, but Petyr wanted to be as sure as possible and that meant putting them in a bit of danger in the hope of getting him back.

‘Besides’, a quiet part in the back of his mind spoke ‘He is _mine_ ’.

He got the best grip he could on the wet rope and pulled, quickly Howland was standing beside him as well pulling, and while he remained on the floor of the boat, Petyr could tell that Ned was pulling as best he could from down there as well. He could feel weight on the rope, and while they might be pulling in a corpse they continued to pull anyway, he didn’t know how long they spent, but finally they couldn’t pull any further and a hand reached up to the side of the boat. He tried to go over to it, but collapsed in a heap as his body gave way to the strain that pulling the rope and fighting against the bucking of the boat had taken out of him. Howland, however darted across the boat, his footing sure as if he was on a smooth road, and reached down to grab near the hand. With a serious effort he managed to haul the very soaked, but thankfully alive Jarden into the boat. He was coughing up water, and looked as pale as Ned, but he was alive and within a few moments he was back trying to help them get out of the storm. All while they tried to pull back her father, Arenna had continued to work on the boat, and now with him back on board the two of them were back to keeping them on a sure passage. Petyr felt reassured that they were going to survive, he also felt rather light headed.

He barely had time to realize this when his eyelids closed and he collapsed into sleep.

*******

When Petyr woke up the storm had passed, and as he looked around obviously no-one else had been swept out to sea, which was fantastic. As he stirred Howland noticed him waking up, and passed him the cured meat, hard cheese and stale bread that they had taken on board for their supplies. Petyr wolfed them down as he was ravenous, and stood up to stretch, that done he made his way over to a part of the boat that wasn’t in use and relieved himself. That done he made his way over to Jarden.

“That was some very good sailing by both you and your daughter Jarden, thank you for getting us through that storm.”

“Thank you milord, I was only doing what comes naturally to me. I also feel I have to thank you for saving my life, both Arenna and Lord Howland told me it was you who started pulling me back in from the water.”

Petyr smiled at the fisherman “The Stranger might not like it, but if I can prevent someone from going into his embrace then I will. How far are we now?”

“No more than a day out from White Harbour milord. The weather is looking rather settled as well, so it should be smooth sailing from here on out.”

Petyr nodded to the man and settled back down to near the other two in his party, after a while he routed through his stored, and very wet, possessions and found the lute that he had managed to acquire back in the Eyrie. After a quick warm up to get his fingers ready, the opening of “Classical Gas” he started to pick a rhythm and began to sing, the song shouldn’t need any changing and after yesterday he wanted to do something to cheer up a bit.

_“Now we are ready to head for the Horn,  
Way, ay, roll an' go!  
Our boots an' our clothes boys are all in the pawn,  
Timme rollickin' randy dandy O!_

_Heave a pawl, oh, heave away,  
Way, ay, roll an' go!  
The anchor's on board an' the cable's all stored,  
Timme rollickin' randy dandy O!”_

He continued to sing the old sea shanty, Jarden and Arenna joined in on the chorus line after the second verse, and even Ned seemed to pick up the chorus after a while. Between the music, the nice weather and the sheer exhilaration at still being alive, Petyr felt absolutely fantastic. Sure he was going off to fight in a war soon, and yes, no-one had plot-armour in the land of Westeros, well no-one but Ramsay Snow, but right now he could enjoy himself.


	8. Chapter 8

****

**Chapter 8**

**Petyr VI**

The “city” of White Harbour lay out before him as the fantastic view from the seat of House Manderly allowed him to easily take in all the buildings from where he stood. The fact he could see the whole city up here, from the black Wolf’s Den to the very pretty domed Sept of the Snows, was why he tended to find it a bit hard to accept White Harbour as a city, and not a large town. A city was supposed to be a vast thing, almost a country in and of itself, not something you could see the entirety of from a nearby hill, however if Petyr was going to keep judging the various fictional places around him by the standards of the real world, he would quickly go mad. Although he probably was already going mad, after all he couldn’t spend two months in a living breathing fictional world without starting to question his sanity, also there was the fact that somewhere in the back of his mind Littlefinger was still floating around.

He let out a bitter chuckle ‘Yeah, can’t forget that now can I? Even if you aren’t throwing nightmares at me every night, you are still in there, aren’t you?’

He continued to stare as he waited for an answer, but instead of hearing a voice inside his head, or something as equally outlandish and ominous, a booming voice called out from behind him.

“Lord Petyr, you look as if you’ve eaten something that disagrees with you.”

Lord Wyman Manderly, the large lord of White Harbour, was standing not too far behind him and without waiting for a reply promptly sat himself down in a large wooden chair that looked out at the view Petyr had been taking in.

“Oh no my lord, just merely thinking dark thoughts to accompany our dark times. The food, apart from being plentiful, has not led to me having any sort of distress or ill reaction at all, and once again I must thank you for your hospitality.”

“Bah, you showed up here in the company of my liege lord as a veritable sworn sword, it would have been nothing short of betraying my families legacy of fealty to the Starks if I didn’t treat you as well as I do him, besides” with that Wyman made an exaggerated theatrical effort to look around “this far North and I need all the reinforcements I can get against the heathens.”

He then winked at Petyr, in a similar theatrical style, and Petyr laughed. There was a certain Brian Blessed like vibe to Wyman Manderly, he was a large boisterous man that seemed perpetually cheerful and happy with being the life and soul of a party, he was also a lot smarter and sharper than first impressions would suggest. He had welcomed the trio of wet Lords to his castle with open arms, and instantly made the services of his Maester available to help Ned summon his banners. Howland had left as soon as he could, he had claimed that he had to get to his home to rally his men and that Ned would be safe in the Merman’s court, he had also said that he would be preparing the supplies and routes needed to help get the Northern army through the Neck as quickly as possible. Petyr suspected that while all that was true, he had also wanted to avoid the positively gargantuan feast that Lord Wyman had put on in Ned’s honour.

The next day, after Petyr had found a light enough broth and cool drink to address his hangover, a totally unfazed Lord Wymen had helped explain to him and a slightly shaky Ned that it would be about two weeks before the various banners from the eastern parts of the North, and the contingent from Winterfell, would be able to meet them at White Harbour, Ned had simply nodded in response to this and Petyr must have looked confused as Lord Wymen then explained to him that due to the sheer size of the North, the mustering of the banners into one single force wouldn’t happen until they got to Moat Cailin, and that mustering them all there wouldn’t be possible as trying to fit a whole army in and around Moat Cailin for too long would be an exercise in madness. Ned had then been whisked away to go over the correspondence from the closer lords, and Petyr had been left to his own devices.

The first day by himself had gone fairly quietly, his curiosity of the Merman’s court and New Castle giving him something to do. Today had been a little of the same, except he found himself mainly looking out across the city and brooding like the love interest in a crap young adult series. He would probably have continued to stay here, questioning his sanity by himself, if the rotund presence now staring at him hadn’t made his presence known.

“I’m afraid my lord, I’m not much of a reinforcement I’m afraid. While I attended the lessons that I had to in Riverrun, my knowledge of all things theological is severely lacking, but if you want to say vaguely religious things in an authoritative voice I’ll stand behind you and nod while murmuring vague agreement, will that be suitable?”

Lord Wyman laughed and waved Petyr towards the other chair with a view out over the city, as he did a servant in the green and blue livery of house Manderly placed a bowel of fruit on a table between the chairs, and another placed a carafe of wine.

“It is a fantastic view from up here, I put myself through the task of getting up here at least once a day to look out over it, of course by the time I get up here I do need to sit down, hence the furniture. Would you like a cup of wine Lord Petyr?”

“No thank you Lord Wyman.”

“Oh well, more for me.” As he poured himself a cup of wine Petyr felt himself tensing, as casual as this conversation seemed, it was definitely not coincidence that Lord Wyman had come to talk to him alone, especially not alone where they were unlikely to be over-heard by anyone other than people very loyal to House Manderly. However, there was a moment of hesitation in Lord Wyman, as if he didn’t particularly want to approach what he had to say next, but would have to do it anyway. Petyr decided that saving the man the embarrassment would probably be a good idea, and besides, he was still young enough that he could occasionally get away with brash behaviour.

“If I may Lord Wyman, I have a feeling that there is a more specific reason behind your being here, not that I doubt your desire to look out on such a majestic view.”

“There is indeed Lord Petyr, and at least you’ve saved me the work of building around to the topic. To put it to you simply, I, and by extension many other of my fellow Northern lords, am curious about you. Your duel with Brandon Stark is well known in these parts, and the fact that you would show up in the North in the company of Brandon’s younger brother is enough to raise curiosity.”

Petyr suppressed the initial feeling of annoyance that swept over him, his scar might no longer be strange to him, but he still wasn’t used to it, or the constant reminder it gave to him as to the condition he had found himself when he had awoken in this world. He should have known that it would only help to emphasise how unusual his presence was to be here, never mind his company.

“If I may be blunt Lord Wyman? You want to know why I would show my face in the North in Ned’s company, what my intentions are towards Ned, and what use I intend to be?” His voice came out slightly harsher than he would have wanted it to, but there were times when his body was still that of a teenager and liable to rushes of hormones and emotion.

“Well allow me to explain it to you, I came here because it was the right thing to do. Sure, I didn’t like Brandon Stark, and yes I thought he was a woeful match for someone whom I had known for most of my life and counted as my best friend. However that disagreement was resolved when he nearly gutted me like a fish, and any resentment I had over said defeat disappeared the moment I heard of what the Mad King had done. I also want you to understand that whatever my disagreement with Brandon, it was with Brandon alone. His family was never a factor, and I do not hold his actions against them. So when I am at the Gates of the Moon, and Ned receives the news that his father and his brother have been tortured to death by the Mad King, I did the thing any man with a shred of decency would do, I swore my sword to him Lord Wyman. I swore in a Godswood, to both the Old Gods and New, that I would stand beside him until his justice him been delivered, an oath that even my own Bannerlord saw as more important than my own obligations to him. As to what use I may be? Well, I am of meagre means, hell, I’m the poorest man with a title in all the Seven Kingdoms. I have no great armies to call upon, I have no traditional weapons to bring to bear.” He stopped to take a breath for a moment and collect his thoughts, he had Lord Wyman’s undivided attention, and apparently the attention of the guards and servants nearby as well.

‘This is starting to become a mite dramatic, well fuck it, I didn’t play Edmund of Gloucester for nothing.’

He placed a hand on the pommel of his simple arming sword, it wasn’t a threatening gesture, and while the Manderly guards had started to move even so, Lord Wyman simply held up one hand to them and they stopped in their tracks.

“It is only this sword I can call upon Lord Wyman, a simple thing given to me by a close friend. It is the only tool of martial ability I can bring to Ned’s cause, but I would challenge any man, North, South, East or West, to find a sword that will be more loyal to his cause.”

He stood there in silence, meeting Lord Wyman’s gaze, and as he did he saw something. It was quick, and the older man recovered from its exposure almost instantaneously, but for a moment, the happy, jolly exterior disappeared. The Lord Wyman he had seen in that moment had been intense, serious and above all else, he had been completely focused on Petyr.

“Well then Lord Petyr” he said, his voice returned to the jolly projection that Petyr was now very sure was a façade “I can appreciate your candour. You’ve answered my concerns, and then some if I may be truthful. I can’t say that every other Northern lord will be so easily placated, and I would seriously avoid challenging other men’s loyalty to the Stark in the North again, but if you answer with the conviction in your voice that you just did, I imagine that most will accept you.”

Lord Wyman raised a goblet to his lips, but paused just before he could drink from it.

“Except maybe Roose Bolton of course, but he is a suspicious man at the best of times.”

The mere mention of the Lord of the Dreadfort was enough to cause Petyr to shiver, and as he did he saw a brief flicker of enjoyment in Lord Wyman’s eyes. However, Petyr was now sure from what Wyman had said that the last part of his “speech” had probably offended the man, and it couldn’t hurt to apologise.

“I am sorry if my words in any way offended you Lord Wyman, I didn’t mean to doubt any other man’s loyalties to Ned, least of all the head of the loyalist house in the entire North. I’m afraid my mouth ran ahead of my brain, it has a tendency to do that when I feel like I am being useless.”

“Useless? In what way?”

“Well it is simple, Howland has gone back to rally his people, Ned is cooped up trying to learn how to be the most senior nobleman in the entire North. It is going to be the better part of a month before our entire army is on the march, and even then it isn’t guaranteed that it will be immediately thrown into the fray. I don’t have any soldiers to look after, or duties to exercise, right now I am as useful as tits on a bull.”

“Hah, you are in a position where you can relax, do nothing, and no-one is going to chastise you for it, it is true what the Maester says, youth is wasted on the young. Well Lord Petyr, surely there must be something you can do to pass the time? If nothing else, a brave young warrior like yourself” the phrase was dripping with sarcasm as he said it, and Petyr couldn’t help but smile at the man’s joke “should be training for the coming combat. Personally I would recommend enjoying the leisure time, but I will have a message passed on to my master at arms to make room for you and let you go rummaging around the armoury. If nothing else, a bit more muscle might grow on you, which means you might just be able to fight off the weakest of the Umbers when they decide they want some fun with the pampered Southern noble.”

“I would appreciate that greatly Lord Wyman.”

“Think nothing of it, you are under my house in the company of my Bannerlord. We have shared bread and salt, I would be breaking the obligations of a host if I did not offer this to you. Now however, if you will permit me, I would enjoy the opportunity to stare at my city.”

*******

Petyr moved backwards as he twisted his body to avoid the brunt of the other man’s shield. He didn’t avoid the whole blow, but he rode the impact to his midsection and used it to give him a bit more momentum in his own movement. His training partner took that as an opening to come at him with his training sword, but he tried to strike too far forward and Petyr took the opportunity that his opponent’s out-stretched arm gave him. He stepped into the other man, braced his leg, and brought his own sword forward point first towards the man’s face. The man instinctively flinched and tried to step back to get out of the blow, but Petyr’s leg blocked the man’s movement, and once he lifted his foot and put himself completely off balance, Petyr pulled his own practice blade in towards himself, and connected with the man’s upper torso with elbow, putting all his weight behind the blow.

His opponent hit the ground with a clatter, and before he could try and get back on his feet Petyr thrust out with his practice blade so that it connected solidly with his opponents chest.

“I yield.” Came the unhappy grumble out of the man on the ground, and as Petyr offered him a hand back to his feet, he took it with grunt. Many things about reality in the world of Westeros worried Petyr, but he had to admit, near daily sword training was doing wonders for his body and muscle tone. He would never be a weight lifter, but with the combination of remembered lessons from his old life, and new lessons learnt in this one, he felt that he was becoming a semi-decent swordsman. Not that he wanted to test that theory against a serious opponent, but he should at least be able to hold his own in a fight.

“Well Lord Petyr” came the voice of master at arms “I must admit that is some better swordsmanship than I expected to see out of a lad of your build. However we tend to cycle between martial weapons in our training up here, so it is off to the archery targets with you.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have a bow, is it possible that I could borrow one from the armoury?”

“His Lordship said to accommodate you in any way we could, so I don’t see why not. But a piece of advice my lord, make sure to pick one that you can use.”

Petyr nodded at the advice, advice he had heard multiple times before, and set off in search of a bow he could use. Truth be told, he was a mediocre archer at best, both in Westeros and at home, but what issues he had with a bow and arrow tended to disappear if he could get his hands on a crossbow. It was probably to be expected that he would be better with a crossbow than a bow and arrow, one took years of training to master, the other took only a few months at most, and Petyr was a firm believer in the theory that without the introduction of gunpowder and firearms, the crossbow would have supplanted the standard archer over time. And, as luck would have it, as he wondered among the rows of weapons in the armoury of House Manderly, he came across a crossbow and quiver. In fairness, it would have been more unusual if there hadn’t been one tucked away in the armoury somewhere, and the one he found was hardly an artisan crafted weapon. It was a simple wooden body, flat metal trigger underneath, a probably iron bow and had a foot stirrup at the front.

As he lifted it off the shelve it had been sitting on, the weight of the thing hit him. It wasn’t an arbalest, he definitely wouldn’t have been able to lift one of those, but it wasn’t the lighter hunting crossbows he had held before. He tried to pull the string back, and while it took a bit of exertion, he was able to cock the bow in no time. Dry firing it would not be good for the crossbow, but it couldn’t exactly be uncocked easily, so instead he settled for putting it back down, taking the quiver of bolts nearby, and walking off with it in the direction of the archery targets. As he did, his mind was already ablaze with ideas, and he desperately tried to recall the conversation he had had with some German re-enactor about how exactly the cranequin windlass device worked.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

**Petyr VII**

It was really the little things about Westeros that actually bugged Petyr. Take for example, the calendar, instinctively Petyr knew that one standard year in Westeros was made up of seven 30 day months and five 31 day months. He also instinctively knew that this was wrong, the year was _supposed_ to be made up of four 30 day months, seven 31 day months and one 28 day month that was 29 days long every four years. Throw in the fact that Westerosi months didn’t have names, well names outside of “First Moon” through “Twelfth Moon”, and the whole thing was just annoying. Then there was currency, and any system that meant the single highest denomination, a Gold Dragon, was equal to 23,520 of the smallest denomination, half-pennies, was fundamentally an uneven mess, and decimalisation would be the least of things that would be needed to make the system actually make sense. Granted, Westeros was a medieval economy, but what the hell was so difficult about the idea of 100 pennies to a Stag, 100 Stags to a Dragon? And he didn’t even want to get started on the purchasing power of the various denominations, the fact that a high-quality loaf of bread was only a single penny, or less, meant that ten Gold Dragons would be enough for a peasant farmer to live the rest of his life happy. After that there were the more “obvious” hang-ups about a pre-industrial society, mainly the lack of proper plumbing, toilet paper, food that didn’t taste bland and, he spared a look for the constantly sullen looking Northern horse he was riding, _transportation_. The horse, showing its knack for reading Petyr’s mind, threw its head to one side at that thought in a thoroughly horse like gesture of “Well I don’t like you either”. Petyr stuck his tongue out at the horse, and absentmindedly wondered if he could get a dog food or glue factory running in the next week.

His wondering of course brought him back to why he was busy noticing the various little and not-so little annoyances of his current predicament. The journey between White Harbour and Moat Cailin was not a quick one, and even if everyone in the army that was currently marching west was on horses, it still wouldn’t be going much quicker. 4,500 soldiers did not move quickly, and the various camp followers and such that accompanied 4,500 soldiers moved even slower than that. Half of the Northern Army was marching to Moat Cailin from White Harbour, and while the other half of the army was there waiting for Ned’s arrival, if this half didn’t pick up the pace Petyr was liable to go insane of boredom. He stretched out his arms and twisted his neck, for which he was rewarded with a satisfying pop, and from slightly behind him a very quiet voice spoke in reaction to the noise.

“There are times I must admit I find that habit of yours most distressing Lord Petyr.”

Petyr had to seriously fight the reaction to go for his crossbow. Even though he was aware of the man’s presence, even though the man hadn’t done anything to in any way harm or impede Petyr and even though the man had been downright civil to talk to, Roose Bolton still put Petyr’s hind mind into a fight or flight reflex whenever he spoke.

“My apologies Lord Roose, I do not do it to distress you, merely to bring some relief to my muscles” Petyr paused for a moment and with an effort smiled at the other man “and from the monotony of our journey.”

The older man simply gave him a level stare with his grey-eyes, and after a moment a ghost of a smile appeared on his lips.

“I can appreciate that the journey is not particularly interesting, but travel here in the North is hardly as quick as it is in the South. Of course the weather in the South is hardly as adverse as it is here.”

Great. They were making small-talk. About the Weather. Petyr didn’t think he would have missed the swamp-ninja “sneaking up on you in the middle of the night” companionship of Howland Reed, but at least Howland didn’t constantly stare at you as if you were a particularly amusing piece of prey. Before he would have to make a comment back, and continue another one of the incredibly unnerving conversations that Roose seemed to enjoy, a rider from further forward in the column rode directly towards him. Turning his attention away from Lord Bolton, an action he regretted every time as it meant giving Roose Bolton an opportunity to strike, he regarded the rider that was coming towards him. The rider wore a grey cloak over his simple armour, and as he came closer it became easier to distinguish his facial features, his long face was untouched of any facial hair, which would doubtless have matched his dark brown hair. His eyes were different than his older brothers, Ned’s eyes were a grey not too dissimilar to Lord Bolton’s, while Benjen Stark’s eyes were a strong blue. And he managed to carry himself with an air of excitement, and some other emotion that Petyr just couldn’t figure out.

“Lord Roose, Lord Petyr. My brother would like you both to join him in the Vanguard, we will be making camp for the day soon and he would like both of you present at his meeting.”

“Master Benjen, do you know if all of Lord Eddard’s commanders will be in attendance, or just a small group?”

The quiet tone Bolton used must have been difficult for Benjen to hear, but Petyr understood why the older man had asked the question. Roose Bolton liked calm, quiet and peaceful surroundings, and any command tent that also held the Greatjon was unlikely to be any of those things. It was part of the reason why Roose rode so far back in the column, and honestly Petyr couldn’t blame him.

“All of my brother’s commanders will be there Lord Roose, and he has stressed that it is to be important. If you would like to make your way to his tent?”

Before the Leech-Lord could try and drag out the inevitable any longer, Petyr spoke up with a slight smile to the younger Stark.

“Certainly Master Benjen, Lord Roose if you would like to take the lead?”

The Leech-Lord looked at him for a moment, and nodded his head at him and took the lead of their little three-man procession. Petyr always enjoyed having the pink-wearing Bolton in front of him, and preferably with his back turned, and Benjen Stark was hardly the worst company in the world to ride beside. The younger Stark was rather close to Petyr’s physical age, only a few months older than him actually, and while he was taller than Petyr, the distance between them wasn’t as great as he first thought in White Harbour. As per usual, the younger Stark was also doing his best to not meet anyone’s eyes, he didn’t know why, and it doubtless had to do with the vexing other emotion that he was trying to conceal. Not for the first time Petyr cursed his lack of “canon” knowledge about Benjen, hell his first real interaction with him had been the major ass-whopping Benjen had given him in sparring shortly after he had arrived at White Harbour. Benjen had been tripping over himself to apologise for that, and Petyr had almost tripped over as much back to accept the apology and reassure him that he didn’t blame him and that it was just an accident in the heat of the moment. He was sure the younger Stark’s emotions had simply overwhelmed him, and while Petyr was hardly the Mad King, he was still someone that had treated Brandon Stark dishonourably, and Benjen Stark seemed almost fanatical in his loyalty to his family.

His musings on Benjen ended as Lord Roose drew up his horse at a tent that was still in the process of being completely erected. In front of the tent a Stark banner fluttered lazily in the breeze, and two armed soldiers in Stark livery stood guard at the front of it. They didn’t even lift an eyebrow as the pink-clad Bolton simply strolled into the tent, from within a booming voice greeted Bolton, and Petyr rolled his eyes at the knowledge that he would have to deal with Greatjon Umber, again. Petyr strode into the tent after he had his horse tied up, and if the Stark guards had any queries as to why Petyr was also wearing a Stark cloak, they kept them to themselves. The fact of the matter was that Petyr didn’t have any sort of clothing in “his” houses colours, and he also lacked the coin to be able to hire a tailor or seamstress to make him something. Instead he had simply asked Ned if it would be ok for him to wear a grey Stark cloak, and while Ned had initially seemed taken aback at the request, he had been fine with it after a moment’s consideration. The fact that in this campaign he was equipped little better than a hedgeknight made him laugh, Gods, his Grandfather would be spinning in his grave if he had one.

“Something amusing little songbird?” The booming voice of the Greatjon greeted him as he stepped into the tent. He looked over at the Greatjon, and then up, and up some more, to face the man. There was only one way to deal with a man like Jon Umber, and while Littlefinger wouldn’t have known it, or indeed have had the wherewithal to try it, Petyr had known enough Jon Umber’s in another world to know what he had to do. So he simply smiled sweetly and spoke.

“A small personal joke Lord Jon, mainly I was bemused by the fact that I’m marching with an army of heathen barbarians to destroy good civilized men.”

The silent tension in the tent could be cut with a knife. Around him men cautiously took a step back from both Jon and himself, and out of the corner of his eye Petyr could see Ned’s face momentarily drain of colour. However he kept his attention firmly on the face of the gigantic Umber. The eyes of the Greatjon narrowed, and a hand casually brushed the hilt of the massive sword the man carried.

“And tell me, what would a soft Southron child know of barbarians and heathens?”

The Greatjons voice came out quietly, and if it was possible the tension in the tent increased tenfold. Petyr just continued to stare at the Greatjon, setting his face into as serious an expression as he could muster while maintaining his smile. Luckily, the Greatjon corpsed first, and the slight grin that broke through the giant man’s face eventually sent him into whooping gales of laughter. Petyr in turn started to laugh, and as he did he felt himself get picked up in a bone-cracking embrace by the bigger man.

“Lord Eddard, I don’t know where in that miserable realm south of the Neck you managed to find a person with a sense of humour, but by the Gods you found a good one.”

Petyr was put back on his feet, and while a slap on his back from the Greatjon nearly threw him off his balance, he couldn’t help but smile wider as the colour returned to Ned’s features. Jon Umber was a tough man, he came from a hard land, but he was not by extension a cruel man. Sure he was dangerous as hell, but he came from the stock of “take as well as you give”, and luckily for Petyr he had grown up surrounded by such men his entire life. Granted, those men usually didn’t have giant bladed weapons they could use if a joke went too far, but so far Petyr had managed to stay well the hell away from the Greatjon’s limits. Getting into the groove of it with a drunken Greatjon, and subsequently trading light friendly banter since was one thing, actually offering the man who could probably pop his head off like a champagne cork an actual insult was another. Even then, if he did manage to properly insult him, the Greatjon would probably not do anything while Petyr was in Ned’s service. Probably.

“Well, with everyone here I can begin” Ned said with his voice slightly raised, any background chatter that had popped up after Petyr and the Greatjon’s interaction stopped as “The Stark” began to speak “I received a message today from Jon Arryn. He has informed me that while the forces of the Vale are still re-organizing after the taking of Gulltown, the forces of the Stormlands have not been idle. Robert Baratheon has won a great victory over Lords Fell, Cafferen and Grandison at Summerhall, he apparently fought three different battles against them and was victorious each time. He plans to consolidate his forces now before making his next move. Lord Jon also writes to me that he has been in contact with Hoster Tully, and while negotiations about the passing of our troops through the Riverlands continues, he is optimistic of their outcome.”

As he mentioned Hoster Tully, a quick flash of annoyance flared up in Petyr. The old Trout was taking his sweet fucking time signing up to the Rebellion, but he would be considering the price he would demand from the Rebels before he would join. As he suppressed the annoyance, he noticed Ned’s eyes lingering on him for a moment, there was a degree of unease to them before he moved on to look back down at his message.

‘That’s just what I don’t need. Ned thinking there is something wrong with me.’

A map was spread out on a large folding table, and while Ned and his main commanders moved in to crowd around it, Petyr took a step back towards the walls of the tent, he wasn’t particularly useful in discussions of strategy or troop movements instead he would remain in the tent until Ned dismissed him. It was boring to do, but it was the correct protocol, and if there was one thing that Northerners were touchy about, it was perceived insults to their Lord Paramount, and not for the first time he shuddered to think of the reception he would have gotten if he hadn’t been so firmly in Ned’s company when he had come North. As the same discussions about travel to Moat Cailin and through the Neck happened again, Petyr allowed his gaze to wander. He wasn’t trying to find anything in particular to look at in the tent, but with the conversation tuned out he needed something to focus on, or else his already immense boredom would probably drive him to tears. His gaze eventually settled on the greatsword that was propped up in a corner beside Ned’s cot, and as he gazed at Ice, his mind went back to the arrival of the Northern army at White Harbour.

_The sun had been shining on a mostly cloudless day, but still it was a cold day as the procession approached White Harbour. The majority of the army would be remaining outside the walls of the city, with the soldiers of House Manderly and the small personnel guards being the exception. The first nobleman to come through the gates of the Merman’s Keep was the one that Petyr had been looking forward to the least, Roose Bolton. Bizarrely, the man was clad in pink, or at least it would have been bizarre if it wasn’t for the fact that pink was the Bolton house colour, an oh so subtle reminder of the past of House Bolton. That he would be the first one to come through the gate shouldn’t have come to him as a surprise, he was one of, if not the, most senior noblemen that would be presenting themselves to Ned. Petyr spared a glance over at Ned, and while he was a long way off being the stoic statue that Sean Bean had portrayed him as, he was doing his best right now, standing clad in a fine grey fur cloak over equally fine armour. The Bolton procession dismounted, and then bowed towards Ned, who in turn nodded his head to acknowledge them. This was not the proper fealty ceremony, that would come later in the Godswood, but it was a part of the pageantry that none the less had to be undertaken._

_Next had come the Karstarks, clad in black and white, wearing cloaks that looked to be made out of seals. The tall Rickard Karstark led them, and as he dismounted and his party bowed to Ned as well, but unlike Lord Roose he also spoke._

_“Cousin, you have called us to arms, and so we answer.”_

_Ned did not respond, instead he again nodded his head at them again in acknowledgment as they then moved over to take up their position beside the Bolton contingent. As they did, an almighty racket filled the air as the next procession came forward, and as they did Petyr felt a certain degree of disbelief at what he was hearing. Around him, some men, and the various women and children lining the walls to watch, winced at the noise, and even Ned had a momentary display of discomfort before returning to the serene mask he was trying to maintain. To Petyr however, once he was sure that yes, he was in fact hearing correctly, was causing a sense of homesickness and longing he didn’t know he could experience, it was the sound of bagpipes, and while he didn’t recognize the exact tune, the fact it was a marching song being played very well was unmistakable. When the procession with the pipers came to a halt in front of Ned, led by the largest man Petyr had ever seen in his life, he had to fight to keep the smile off his face, lest he somehow insult every Northern noble present by bringing brevity to an otherwise solemn occasion. The large man, doubtless the Greatjon, dismounted and with his party bowed towards Ned and took their positions as well._

_With the Umbers squared away, Petyr noticed a slight stiffening on the part of Ned, and he knew why before the next procession even came into sight. They came into the courtyard, clad in grey cloaks not dissimilar to Ned’s own, and at the head of the procession was a young man with deep blue eyes and a face that resembled Ned’s. In his hands he carried a large Greatsword, and as he dismounted he did not bow like the others had, he simply strode towards Ned, the sword in his hands, and once before dropped to one knee to offer the blade up to him and then he spoke._

_“I Benjen Stark, finding myself the Stark in Winterfell and caretaker of the lands in the name of my brother, Eddard Stark, have arrived here at your summons brother. With me I bring our family’s ancestral sword, Ice, and as it is yours by right of birth and blood, I present it to you as the ultimate symbol of your title of head of House Stark, Lord Paramount of the North.”_

_With a slightly shaking hand, Ned reached out and took the sword. As he did he held it by the hilt in one hand before resting his other hand on Benjen’s head, he then said something to him too softly for Petyr to hear from his place beside the Manderly’s, and when the younger brother stood up he took up a position slightly behind and beside his brother. The rest of the procession continued then, and with the Winterfell contingent being the last of the “major” ones Petyr turned his attention from them to study the similarities between the two Stark brothers. Tapping into Littlefinger’s memories of Brandon Stark for comparison, Petyr thought that Benjen looked like a middle ground between his two older brothers, or he would under the best of circumstances. Right now the younger brother was visibly struggling to hold it together, and Petyr didn’t doubt for a moment that the younger Stark’s grief was probably being heightened by being in contact with his one living sibling. Well, one known living sibling, Petyr didn’t know much about Lyanna Stark, but he was fairly confident that she was still alive, even if the rest of Westeros wasn’t quite so sure._

_The processions completed the Lords of the various groups separated from their groups to follow Ned towards the Godswood that was maintained, if not used, by House Manderly in White Harbour. Petyr had been invited along to the ceremony to observe, as had Lord Wyman who had already made his own oath of loyalty in a Sept to Ned, and as the pair made their way towards the Godswood, Petyr had to admit he was feeling a growing sense of excitement. The ceremony would be interesting as hell to see, and while the lead up to it was very morbid, all it was doing was helping to pique his interest. They walked a short distance, although Lord Wyman still managed to look a little out of breath at the excursion, and Ned walked forward to take up his position under the heart tree within before he turned to face the assorted crowd. As he did, he drew Ice out of its scabbard and rested it on one shoulder, the dark smoky Valyrian steel blade instantly drawing Petyr’s attention._

_“I am Eddard Stark. By the actions of King Aerys in his murder of my father, Rickard Stark, and older brother, Brandon Stark, I find myself now as the Stark of Winterfell. I have not longed for this position, nor do I take it with joy, but I will execute my duties and tasks that the position brings me. I would ask now, that all true banner men of House Stark step forward, and in the way of our people, declare your fealty to me before our Gods and your fellow banner men. However, I would also request that if there is anyone here now who feels that I make a false claim to the position, that I am not who I claim to be, let him speak now before the Gods and witnesses.”_

_When no-one did challenge him, Ned simply nodded and turned his gaze to Roose Bolton. At the gaze, Bolton simply walked over to stand before Ned, and staring him in the eye placed one hand upon the Heart Tree and spoke the oath that Petyr had been told he would, what he hadn’t been warned about was the fact that Roose Bolton produced a dagger, cut open his hand and spread his blood on the Heart Tree, his assumption that this would just be an eccentricity of the Leech Lord ended when every lord that followed him did the same. This continued until all the Lords in attendance except for Petyr and Wyman, had partaken in the ritual and as they finished they departed for the Merman’s Keep. All except Ned and Benjen, who doubtless wanted some privacy for their meeting, as Petyr turned away from the two Starks, he felt a hand slap into his back in a strong, but non-threatening manner, and a booming voice sounded from beside him._

_“So, you are the stupid Southron that challenged Brandon to a duel.”_

Before he could recollect the night of drinking, arguing and singing that the Greatjon had subjected him to, Petyr found his attention snapping back to Ned who was calling his name. The rest of the tent was empty, and Petyr could feel that one of his legs had gone to sleep where he had propped himself up against the wall of the tent.

“Gods Ned, I’m sorry, did I fall asleep?”

A smile broke out on Ned’s face, something that he was doing more of now that he had met Benjen.

“Yes you did, you proper yourself up against the wall of the tent and while you weren’t snoring, you were definitely asleep. I had to talk the Greatjon out of picking you up and dumping you in a nearby stream, he was quite enamoured with the idea and even Roose Bolton seemed to be encouraging him.”

“Well Ned, I thank you for that. And I apologize for falling asleep, that was incredibly rude of me.”

Truth be told, he hadn’t even realized he was that tired, but considering he had been having trouble sleeping on the march it shouldn’t have surprised him. He started to get ready to leave, when his leg that was still asleep nearly caused him to collapse, instead he just wound up falling forward and catching himself on the table in the tent. Ned smiled again, and waved him at a folding chair at the edge of the table, Petyr gratefully sat down and started to rub his leg. He was going to make a joke about the situation when he got a look at Ned, and at the look in his eyes he knew something was troubling him.

“I” Ned began, and with a rub of his eyes he looked at Petyr “I got another message from Jon, but he didn’t want me to read it out in the company of my banner men, and especially not in your company. However considering the contents, I felt it would only be fair to inform you of them now, as a way of treating you with the same kindness and understanding that you have treated me since we met. Jon Arryn has managed to negotiate passage through the Riverlands for our forces, but the passage comes at a price.”

Ned hesitated again, looking at him, and Petyr realized that he knew what the price was. At the dawning realization, he felt an anger in him start to bubble away, that old son of a bitch was still going to sell off his Cat. And just as quickly as he realized the anger, and the thoughts behind it, he clamped down on it and screamed at himself in his thoughts and closed his eyes.

‘NO YOU FUCKING PUBESCENT MORON. SHE IS NOT NOW, NOR WAS SHE EVER GOING TO BE _YOUR_ CAT.’

He opened his eyes again, the feeling of anger receding as Littlefinger’s influence over his emotions disappeared. Ned looked at him with concerned eyes, and Petyr forced himself to speak, and while his voice wasn’t quite as level as he would like, he knew he would have to have Ned confirm his suspicions.

“W-what price Ned?”

“Marriage. With Brandon dead, Hoster Tully is still determined to get his marriage between the Stark and Tully lines. The obligation of marrying Catelyn Tully falls to me, and if I am to secure the passage of our troops, I will have to marry her.”

At the last bit, a distant look of regret crossed Ned’s face, it was there for just a moment and Petyr knew he was missing something here, but it was gone again as he looked at him, the concern and trepidation on his face returning.

“I felt Petyr that I should be the one to tell you this. If for no other reason, than to find out if this is going to cause an issue between us, if you feel it does, I will release you from your oaths and return you to Jon Arryn. I will include a message with you to explain to him that it is not that you acted dishonourably, but that I feel you would be better served under your banner lord.”

Petyr took a deep breath. Truthfully, outside of the Littlefinger part of him, he didn’t give a flying fuck who Catelyn Tully married, and Ned Stark was probably one of the best husbands a woman in Westerosi society could ask for. However, he had to act as if he did care, and that meant acting up his consideration of the situation even when he already had his mind made up.

“Ned” he began, turning his gaze to meet the grey eyes of his friend “I want to say this to you only once, so please pay close attention. My issue with Cat marrying your brother was not an issue that applies to you, for you see I love Cat, but that love is strictly the same love as any man would have for his sister. And while I do think of Cat, and Lysa as well, very fondly I am not capable of simply overlooking their flaws, not out of malice but out of the same love. Cat is very smart, quick and beautiful. She has had life handed to her easily and as such she has a certain failure to see the world as it is, but as it should be. To her, your brother was a dashing, roguish Northern prince who would whisk her off to a faraway place where she would raise a family of many children with him secure in his total love. The politics of the marriage were of second nature to the nursery tale aspects of it to her, and she was totally convinced of her illusion.”

Petyr took a moment to pause, he would have to be careful with the next bit, if he was too blunt he would risk ruining his relationship with Ned, but if he was too vague he might fail to make his point. Fortunately for him, Ned spoke first.

“My brother would not have been able to live up to this expectation. I loved him dearly, and he could be a great man when he needed to be, but much like you, I saw his flaws out of my love for him, not out of malice. I feel I might have a better insight into why you acted like you did, and if I had not grown to know you like I have, I may not have totally believed that.”

“Well then Ned, do me a favour, listen to me again. I think that if anyone was going to win my approval for Cat, it would be you. You are kind, you are gentle, but you are not without a resolution and determination to do what needs to be done. If you survive this coming storm, there is no doubt in my mind you would be the best husband that Cat could ever want for.”

Ned stared at him, and for several minutes the pair of them sat in silence. Once the silence started to become uncomfortable, Petyr started to stand up and make his exit.

“Well then Ned, if that is all, I have a whole lot of doing nothing useful I should get back to.”

“Doing nothing useful? How do you mean?”

“Well, outside of some sparring practice with Benjen, I’m not exactly of much use to your forces, and Gods know I’m bored and tired of feeling like a beggar at the feast.”

“Well then Petyr, tell me, is there anything you think you could do?”

He paused, he hadn’t really thought about it to be honest. Sure he had thought of things that could be useful, introducing a sort of pike and shot tactic, suggesting a canal, four crop rotation, gunpowder, but he knew that now was not the time to try and do any of those. However he had continued to think about them all the same, things that could be useful in the future, far in the future, as opposed to things he could do now that would be useful. And as he thought, he looked out at all the campfires spread out across the army, he looked out at all the firewood that was being used, all the food that was being consumed, all the tents that were being erected. And he knew what he could do to be useful.

“Yes Ned, I think I do. Tell me, would you let me handle logistics? I’d need some authority from you to draft capable men, and to get some supplies, but I think that for the moment at least, that would be the best use of my talents. I’m no great warrior, I have no army to command, but if there is one thing I know, it is that an army marches on its stomach, and someone needs to be able to keep our one full.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

**Petyr VIII**

Robert E. Lee once said that _“It is well that war is so terrible, otherwise we should grow too fond of it”_. For Petyr Baelish AKA James Turner AKA Littlefinger AKA God-only-knows-what-else-spacebat-GRRM-had-thrown-in, he understood the sentiment behind the aged generals expression very well, however he felt that in the current place and time, an amendment to the phrase was well deserved. He reached across the small folding desk in his small tent for a bundle of parchment that was placed away from the others, on the front of the bundle he simply had written “Notes on the Northern Campaign”, other attempted titles were there scribbled out as well, and honestly he didn’t even know if this name would stick. He flipped past the observations he had made on the campaign so far, and the history leading to it, until he arrived at a blank page, once there he dipped his quill into the inkpot near his elbow and wrote his version of the saying.

_“It is a good thing that war is so expensive, otherwise all men should wage it.”_

He smiled a bit at the line, but as he re-read it his attention was drawn back to the other pieces of parchment that scattered his desk, and he felt a scowl come over his face. Logistics, in theory was an easy task to care for, after all it was simply a matter of making sure that item A was available at location A for person A when it was needed. However the difference between theory and reality was similar to that between apples and oranges as far as the Northern army was concerned, and this was only half the bloody thing. 4,726 soldiers marched in the current army, not the 4,500 that he had been previously led to believe, and all 4,726 of them had to be fed, had to be sheltered and had to keep moving. Luckily, 4,610 of those men did not need to be paid, this was not a professional army where soldiers were paid for their being here, it was a levy army were men marched where their Lord told them and didn’t complain about it too loudly. The other 116 were sellswords that had come from throughout the Eastern part of the North, mainly White Harbour, and while they did expect to be paid, they weren’t too huge of a drain on the resources of the army. They were also technically not Petyr’s concern, instead as sellswords hired by Wyman Manderly for the campaign they would fall under the Merman’s responsibilities, however the Merman had dumped said responsibilities on Petyr so he would just have to live with it.

That was not to say that he couldn’t have refused said responsibilities, but to do so would probably have greatly insulted Wyman, and much more importantly, may have cost him a large number of the men that were now under his command to assist in the herculean task of tackling the logistics of the army. Ned had been generous in giving Petyr the right to draft a “reasonable” number of men to his service to help get an idea for the scope of the needs of the army, and while the exact amount was open to debate, he had kept it as small as he could to avoid stepping on anyone’s toes. He had gone in search of volunteers that could count, and count well. Literacy was a big bonus, but not being able to read and write didn’t mean that Petyr would turn them away, simply that he would limit the workload he would put on them. He tried to get a hold on at least one man in each of the various major Lords retinues, mainly so that no one would think he was favouring one Lord over another, but the majority of men he wound up with had come from White Harbour. Usually men that had worked a trade before being called up, they had then been assigned the task of working through the army and counting the number of tents, weapons, wagons, draft horses and other sundry requirements of an army.

In theory each Lord should have known that themselves, or had a record of it somewhere. In reality, only Lord Wyman and Lord Roose had actually had a record and accurate figure, and while he was still creeped out by the Leech Lord, he had to admit, the man kept good records. Due to his survey, he now had an accurate guide to the number of horses, wagons and tents in the army. The various different weapons and armour would be a while off yet, and a few of the Lords were trying to hold out on the good stuff, but every man had some sort of weapon with him and knowing how many of the men in the army carried a bow compared to how many carried a spear would be useful to know. For the most part the ordinary soldiers hadn’t minded the survey being done, and Petyr had been pretty happy with how it went, to him it was like helping to organize a historic re-enactment, just without the constant “my costume is more authentic than yours” dick waving contest. However simply counting the number of men, equipment, and what they needed wouldn’t be all of Petyr’s responsibilities, and right now making sure everyone was fed was his main one. It was not that anyone was in danger of running out of food anytime soon, the North might not be the greatest agricultural land on the planet, but when the local lord is part of the army marching through, food becomes available without anyone having to do any real foraging work. The only real foraging was to find fodder for the various animals in the army, be they the Lords and cavalry horses, the various draft animals, or the small herds of animals that were being brought along as a food source.

As they moved South, however, there was every possibility that this could change. He had no reason to think the Riverlands would turn hostile, so the chances of actually “living of the land” should be minimized as much as possible to prevent a strain in relations and a break down in discipline. To this end, he had Ned, via Jon Arryn, organizing supply dumps ahead of time so that the lack of having to take the supplies might not piss off his future Good-father, the fact that he had managed to sell Ned on the idea of waving a dowry in return for the supplies would probably also help. Of course the fact that Ned himself wasn’t in direct contact with Hoster Tully was frustrating at times, but Ned had viewed himself as the most junior member of the aptly named STAB alliance, and as such he was leaving the real diplomatic horse-wrangling up to Jon Arryn, which probably suited the Old Falcon perfectly fine. Petyr wasn’t in contact with Hoster either, but that was because he felt having Ned do it, and by extension Jon Arryn, would prevent any letters bearing his name showing up in Riverrun and annoying Hoster Tully, and while he would probably have to interact with the man in the future, he wanted a nice clear and obvious friendship between himself and Ned to be noticed by the man to save them both the trouble that any past actions might drag up. There were times when he felt like making up a sandwich board with the words “SORRY I NEARLY GOT KILLED BY BRANDON STARK” written on them, and just wearing that instead of anything else. Maybe he could get it tattooed to his forehead, or paint it on the side of his horse. Before his ruminations on the constant need to apologize for a stupid act could get anymore in depth, he heard movement outside his tent.

“Lord Baelish?” The voice that called from outside his tent called cautiously, it didn’t sound worried, which was a good sign, that usually meant nothing was going horribly wrong. Usually.

“Come in Mason.”

Mason, or to use his full name Bran Mason, was a slightly tall apprentice stonemason from White Harbour that had, through his own abilities, managed to wind up as one of Petyr’s chief quartermasters. He was young, probably slightly younger than Petyr, but his mind was quick and he had a good head for numbers. He could also read, well, so long as he could move his finger on the page and mouth out the not too complicated words as he went, and he could do some writing, even if his scribbling would make a toddler seem competent, he had proclaimed his limited literacy with pride, and the explanation had been he had been instructed by his father who had in turn been instructed by a Septon that had taken his clerical vows seriously. In another world, Petyr probably would have laughed at the man’s lack of basic skills, however he was in this world, and Mason was one of the best that was available to him. The fact the lad was also built like a shit brick house was a big plus, as while most soldiers had been fine to accommodate the logistics work, some of them had been reluctant, and when the slim and short Lord Petyr Baelish had to come and give them an ear-full, it was always useful for him to have a couple of large men nearby to deter any thoughts of violence.

“Sorry to disturb you Milord, but an issue has come up with the barrels that Bran was helping to put together, mainly it appears that Bran told Bran that the horses can’t handle that much additional weight, although Big Bran disagreed, but Big Bran is a fisherman normally so Bran said that Big Bran didn’t know what he was talking about and that if he had any more input on his and Bran’s discussion, he could fuck off. So Big Bran told Jon, that’s Jon with the scar not the other Jon, that Bran didn’t know what he was talking about and that he shouldn’t be trying to undermine Bran, but other Jon, the one without the scar, overheard this and got into a bit of a shouting match with Big Bran and Jon about how they don’t know horses. Eventually this row ended up catching the attention of Rickon, Rickon and Roose and while Rickon and Rickon tried to keep things settled, Roose went looking for Roose who went looking for me to try and get you.”

Petyr just stared at the man for a long minute, and once he was sure he had figured out the message that had just been given to him, he simply placed the quill from his right hand on the table in front of him, and face palmed. After another minute of silence after he did this, he took a deep breath and turned to face his assistant.

“Alright Mason, question number one” he said as he held up a single finger “I assume that you are referring to, in order, Bran Cooper, Bran Farrier, Bran Fisher, Jon Fisher, Jon Smith, Rickon Hunter, Rickon Fowler, Roose Tailor and Roose Smith?”

Mason’s face took on a concentrated expression for a brief moment, but then he nodded with a sheepish grin.

“Sorry Milord, it can be difficult at times to get used to the surnames you gave us all. I can remember my own easily enough, and Rickon Mason’s of course, but I occasionally slip up on the others and I should have made the effort to use them for your benefit.”

The “surnames based on trade” idea had been Petyr’s solution to the lack of imagination or real variation among the names of the men that were working under him. For the most part it was successful in its task of making it so that Petyr wouldn’t have to keep saying “not you, the other Bran” although the men did occasionally forget to use the system around Petyr which usually translated to him taking longer than they might expect for him to decipher a message from them. The men seemed to take to the notions when it came to themselves, and usually to other people that had wound up sharing the same surname with them, but for them to remember them all was a bit of nuisance, as had been his insistence that just because they shared the same surname did not mean he was insisting they were related.

“Try not to repeat it Mason, but I appreciate it is a learning process. Question number two” he held up a second digit “Why do you feel this matter requires my attention? Surely you and Roose Smith could have settled this by yourselves?”

“Well Milord, it is not so much the argument that I meant to bring to your attention, but the fact that Bran Farrier seems to be right. We can produce the barrels to carry more supplies, but it doesn’t look like the poor beasts would be able to carry them on top of everything else they have to.”

Dammit, the barrels and their supplies were supposed to be one of his foundation achievements in his role. The plus side of having a lot of soldiers that he could effectively order around was that when he had gotten a bunch of coopers together to make barrels, the task had been trivial to get underway. Hoops were made in the travelling forges that accompanied the army, as they would any medieval army, and the wood had been worked by the coopers and a few other carpenters he had been able to rustle up. The plan had been to use those barrels to carry any supplies that would have a long shelf life, such as salted meats, and thus he would be able to subsidise the army’s rations with those supplies between supply dumps as they advanced. But if the horses couldn’t carry the damn barrels, well then it would all be academic wouldn’t it? And besides, he needed one good solid idea under his belt before he started approaching Ned with the really weird ideas, like proper camp sanitation, circling the wagons into fortifications, proper camp sanitation, some form of standard drill for the men and **proper bloody camp sanitation** and quite frankly his survey was not going to be enough. He inhaled a deep breath and counted to ten, not to control his emotions, but to centre himself and his thoughts, as he exhaled he decided on the course of action he would take.

“Right Mason, bring me to the pack horses and get the various individuals involved together. If I’m making a damned fool of myself, I’d rather know now and be certain.”

*******

After a mere fifteen minutes, Petyr was standing next to a cart inspecting it while behind him his various quartermasters, that was with the exception of Mason and Smith who knew they weren’t in trouble, managed to look worried and slightly concerned. He had also absently noticed that Big Bran Fisher had a black eye coming in on his right and that Bran Farrier’s nose looked slightly more out of place than the last time he had looked at him, they were also standing on either end of the line of men from each other. Truth be told he was letting the men stew a bit, as quite frankly he didn’t know what the hell staring at a cart was going to achieve, it was a bog-standard medieval cart, wooden boards on a flatbed on top of four wheels. He could see the thing had bugger all suspension, but that was not an issue he wanted to try and deal with right now and wouldn’t resolve his problem.

“Farrier.”

“Yes Milord?”

“Get one of the draft horses hitched up, we may as well see just how much weight the animals can pull and work from there.”

“Right away Milord.”

As Farrier started making his way over to the small clearing that the armies draft horses were kept in, Petyr stood back out of the way of the cart and took up his position slightly in front of, and to the left, of Mason while he waited. And while Farrier was gone he knew he would have to nip an issue in the bud now.

“That is an interesting bruise on your eye Fisher.”

It took Big Bran a minute to realize that Petyr meant him, but once he did he managed to grumble out a quick acknowledgment of the plum like lump that was his right eye.

“I imagine that whatever gave you that bruise was probably a fierce enough beast, not that I intend to probe any further into how you got it. However I would hope you don’t get any more such bruises Fisher, nor that you go looking for revenge. I have no use for fools in my service.”

He didn’t even move his head to look at the tall fisherman, and truth be told if he hadn’t a head for numbers Petyr would have bounced his belligerent ass back to carrying a spear, but needs must when the Devil drives. But while he couldn’t get rid of him right now, he would be damned if he would give the man a second chance after this. Rivalry among his subordinates was to be encouraged, to a point, and that point was most assuredly before violence. He was starting to let his mind wander on the idea of rivalry when he looked at the horse being hitched up to the cart, and as he did he felt a creeping sense of horror come over him. The harness the horse was in connected it to the two tugs at the front of the cart, it had a rein to allow the cart driver to control the path of the beast, and it had a series of leather straps running over the creature to keep it in place. One such strap ran straight over the horses windpipe, and the horror he felt was at what he saw was missing from the whole set up.

“As you can see Milord” came the voice of Bran Farrier up on the drivers bench “the horse can take a couple more barrels, but I’m afraid that to carry the number that you want spread out across the horses, well, it would risk choking the poor beasts as they pull the cart along.”

To demonstrate this, Farrier had the horse go forward a few paces, and Petyr felt ill as he watched the animal practically garrotte itself against its harness, and as the creature came to a stop he crossed over to it and put a hand on one of its shoulders. It was a big grey dray horse, a type of horse bred for pulling ploughs and other loads, and it looked at him as he started to pat it, as he patted it he spoke softly to it, something he had seen stable hands do in both worlds he called home.

“Hey now, hey, it’s alright. You did a good job, a very good job, I understand what I have to do.”

The horse tossed its head, and he took a step back to turn towards the men under his command.

“Farrier, get the harness off this horse and get it back with the others. Mason, go to my tent and fetch me some blank parchment and the drawing charcoals. Smith” he paused as both Smiths that were there currently looked at him “sorry, Roose Smith, find me a couple of tanners, I know you lot from the Dreadfort are famous for the leather work and I need someone to talk to. Cooper, find me Jon Carpenter, tell him to bring his son. The rest of you, there is a whole army out there that still needs to be accounted for, so hop to it.”

The men scrambled about, and Petyr realized that maybe there were some benefits to being stuck in a Feudal society after all. It didn’t take them long to come back with the required men and materials he had sent them off for, and after being introduced to a tanner from the lands of House Bolton, who was now named Ned Tanner, Petyr set about working on the one design that was missing from the harness of the draft horses. In credit to the skilled craftsmen he was dealing with, he didn’t need to spend too long explaining why he wanted a horse collar designed that would move the weight of the cart down from the windpipe to the shoulders of the horse, and Bran Farrier was very useful in his knowledge of the anatomy of the horse in this regard. It was going to take a few tries, after all he would have been shocked if he could have gotten them to understand it perfectly in one go, but the men were certain that they could have a couple of prototype designs ready before they reached Moat Cailin in four days. It would mean he would have to halt barrel production until he could get proper horse collars in place instead of breast collars, but he would gladly take a minor setback over a total failure any day. Besides, if he could also have a good horse collar to go with his barrel storage, that would be two good solid achievements under his belt, and maybe just maybe he could turn those two into getting Ned to let him set up a system where people would stop pissing near his tent.

*******

When the army from White Harbour reached Moat Cailin, the number of the Northern Army doubled from the roughly 4,500 it had been to roughly 9,000, or, to be more specific, 9,253 men. 9,253 men, with equipment, who had to be fed and accommodated in possibly one of the harshest environments in Westeros. It was enough to make a man want to yell in frustration. So Petyr did. The fact that Howland fucking Reed had just snuck up on him, and had done so with another crannogman as he was walking from back from the latrine, meant that Petyr was doing so out of frustration, not because he had been scared so badly he was grateful he had already been to the bathroom.

“Ah Petyr, good to find you out here, I had hoped to introduce you to my wife, but I must admit I didn’t expect such an enthusiastic reaction from you.”

Petyr blinked.

“Jyana, this is Lord Petyr Baelish, Petyr, this is my Lady wife Jyana Reed.”

The woman he introduced him to had brown hair, and, well, was quite pretty, or that could simply have just been the lack of light offered by anything but a nearby fire. Some courtly instinct programmed into the back of his brain kicked in and he took an offered hand and bowed over it.

“It is an honour to finally meet the woman that chose to marry Howland, I realise that I am only a recent acquaintance of your husband, but I would give you my best wishes that you have a long and happy marriage Lady Reed.”

“Oh, the honour is all mine Lord Baelish. I am delighted to finally meet the man other than my husband who is a sworn-shield of the Stark, and to make such oaths in front of a Godswood, you may be of the South Lord Baelish, but I must admit a curiosity as to whether there is any blood of the North in your veins?”

Petyr felt his face freeze in a smile, he didn’t have a damn clue what she meant, but he suddenly had a feeling that his oath to assist and protect Ned was somehow more significant than he thought at the time. Luckily, he was saved from having to answer the questions of Jyana Reed by her husband, who informed his wife that Petyr’s family came from Braavos. Petyr smiled and pointed out her husband was correct, but he couldn’t help but wonder where exactly Littlefinger had come from, and try as he might, he couldn’t figure out anything to do with his mother. He decided to change the topic of the conversation, as the Reeds had started escorting him back towards the massive tent where a feast was being held for the various Lords of the North.

“So tell me Lady Reed, I have heard rumours that Northern women accompany their men to war, should I expect to find you inside the retinue for House Reed?”

“No Lord Baelish, although I would enjoy the opportunity, Howland has forbidden me. I am with child you see, and while it is still early days, Howland fears not merely for my life but the life of our child if I was to join him.”

Petyr congratulated the happy couple, and his congratulations were overheard as they entered the tent. Within a few moments the Reeds were the centre of attention in the tent as Ned called for a toast to the Reeds and their wonderful news. The toast was three fold, firstly in congratulations to Howland for getting his wife pregnant so quickly, secondly in congratulations to Jyana for getting ready to do her duty and thirdly to the health of the child and the hope that it would be a strong masculine child. Considering he was on his fourth cup of wine that night, Petyr found it really difficult to keep down the giggling fit that overtook him at the knowledge that the child was very likely to be Meera Reed.

*******

Petyr didn’t know if he should be proud, or worried, that he was getting better at waking up with a hangover and pouring himself into his training armour and weapons. On the one hand, the fact he wasn’t losing to Benjen Stark too badly this morning, hell he might even win this particular sparring session, meant that, even hung over, his body was building up the muscle memories that made a competent swordsman. On the other, it might mean he would start regarding his hangovers as nothing more than a trifle inconvenient, and that way could lie the route of the future Bobby B. Shuddering at the thought he brought his sword up to a mid-guard and held his shield low as Benjen Stark moved in for another round. Today would be the last day that the younger Stark would be with the army, he would be riding back to Winterfell today, after all there must always be a Stark in Winterfell, and Benjen was too young to go to war. As Benjen came in with a thrust, Petyr noticed that his heart just wasn’t in the move, not like it had been other sessions, and as he caught the blow on his shield, he brought his sword up in a move that would have split Benjen’s throat open if it were not a practice blade.

“Master Benjen, out. Lord Baelish wins the bout.”

The move seemed to snap Benjen out of his thoughts, and at the announcement he looked around and locked eyes with Petyr.

“Gods Benjen, I’m hung-over as hell and I still got a killing blow on you. You need to focus.”

“I appreciate that Petyr, but, well, never mind it isn’t important…”

As Benjen started to walk off to the side, Petyr followed him. He had been a teenager once, well, twice now, and he recognized the “woe is me with my problems, I don’t want to bother you with them” tone that Benjen had used. He also knew that this meant he needed to talk to someone, anyone, and a sympathetic ear could be awkward but appreciated.

“Benjen, please wait.”

He stopped for a moment and turned to look at Petyr.

“I think you need someone to talk to, and quite frankly I’m a decent listener. No pressure if you don’t, but trust me, I can recognize a young man who needs a sympathetic ear.”

There was a look of hesitation, and then, the briefest of nods as Benjen continued to walk away from the cleared space where they had been practicing. If anyone had an objection to Petyr and Benjen simply walking off the training field they kept it to themselves and Petyr simply followed Benjen in silence. They walked away for a while until Benjen came to sit on a stone that protruded up from the marshy ground of the Neck. Petyr, seeing the lack of a similar stone for himself, looked for a patch of ground that looked stable enough and sat down with is legs crossed under himself, that done, he waited.

“Lord Baelish” the fact he was calling him that and not Petyr was worrying, but he dismissed that thought as quickly as he could “I feel, I feel I have to ask you something. Do you think Ned will win?”

“Yes. There will be a lot of bloodshed, and the entire Seven Kingdoms will be torn asunder in the process, but Ned will win. The Targaryans have been doomed to fall ever since the last dragon died, twas only personal loyalty that kept them on their thrones so long, and the Mad King’s actions have pissed all that away.”

His answer was greeted with more silence, and Benjen stared out across the bogs seeing something that Petyr knew he could not.

“Do you think Ned will return?”

The question came out almost as a whisper, and from the young Stark a tear escaped down the side of his face. Petyr’s answer wasn’t as quick as his last one, mainly because he wondered if there was more to the question, but once he was sure there wasn’t he replied.

“Aye. He’ll return. Your brother is too damned tough and duty driven to get himself killed in a battle and not assume his responsibilities in the North. And even if the dung hits the windmill, I can guarantee that Howland Reed will be there to make sure he is safe. Of course if Howland Reed isn’t in a position to help, it will all fall to me, and odds are good I can get stabbed a couple of times while your brother runs away.”

He said the comment with a smile, and for his self-depreciating humour he was rewarded with a single bark of laughter.

“I think you sell yourself short Petyr, and truth be told with both you and Howland acting as his sworn-shields, I don’t fear for my brother really. But yet, all of my family that has gone South of the Neck, Father, Bran, Lya, none of them have returned save Ned, and now he is going away again.”

“Well Benjen Stark, hear me well, I promise you, on the Old Gods, the New Gods and any other Gods that feel like listening in. If I have to shove your brother in a sack and haul him back to Winterfell, I will. I swore to protect him, and to fight by his side in this war, an oath whose true weight I’m only starting to appreciate, and it is an oath that I intend to keep completely. If nothing else can help you put your burdens down for a while, at least let me help you carry it.”

The younger man simply nodded, and Petyr saw his body shake with more tears as he cried. He didn’t judge him for it, he might be stuck in the grim-derp reality of Westeros, but that didn’t mean he had to completely lose any sense of compassion, besides, he knew Ned would come home safe and Benjen would go off to the Night’s Watch, offering him a metaphorical shoulder to cry on was the least he could do.

“Petyr.”

“Yes?”

“I have no right to do this of you, but I would hope I could get you to swear me a second oath.”

Benjen had turned to stare at him, and his blue eyes shone with a determination and intensity behind the tears.

“Please. Please do everything you can to bring my sister back to me.”

“I swear to you Benjen Stark, I Lord Petyr Baelish will do everything in my power to bring both your brother and sister home to you. I swear this to you on both the Old Gods and the New.”

He said the simple oath, almost without even thinking and without hesitation, and Benjen simply nodded at it.

Internally though, he had a much simpler thought.

‘Well fuck.’

*******

Today had been a draining enough day, and he just knew his life had gotten more complicated with his oath to Benjen Stark, but as he collapsed into his tent, Petyr took one look at the paperwork waiting for him, double what he had gotten used to now, and realized he was doomed to one of two choices. Either he could curl up into a ball and cry, or he could get up and do something productive. He found he settled on a compromise, and after a while spent curled up on his bedroll, he pulled himself up and started to go through the pile of paperwork and let his mind think. As he sat, and thought, he found his mouth moving and song lyrics he hadn’t sung in a while came out as he worked.

“ _Oh there ain’t no rest for the wicked,_

_Money don’t grow on trees._

_I got bills to pay, I got mouths to feed,_

_There ain’t nothing in this world for free._

_No I can’t slow down, I can’t hold back,_

_Though you know I wish I could._

_No there ain’t no rest for the wicked,_

_Till we close our eyes for good._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of the first batch of chapters posting, will post the next ten tomorrow.
> 
> Also it took me till this chapter to realize I didn't need to use code for formatting on this webstie.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

**Petyr IX**

Walder Frey was an asshole. He was a lecherous, mean spirited old man that managed to perfectly embody everything that was corrupt and wrong with a Feudal system and only thinking of him made Petyr start wishing for a band of marauding South American Guerrilla fighters to show up and put Walder in front of a wall in the name of the revolution. Granted, this was his opinion of the bastard behind the Red Wedding before the Northern Army reached The Twins, but now that he was playing the role of an obstructionist asshat for the Army, Petyr’s opinion of him was only getting worse. The fact that one man was also in control of what was apparently the only major crossing over the Green Fork before Darry, and by extension the main artery of Northern/Riverlands trade, also annoyed him, but that was from a purely narrow ‘BS world-building’ perspective, seriously, there is no ferrymen operating a small town somewhere else along the river? No other bridges? Just this one bridge that is ruled over by a family that makes Ebenezer Scrooge look charitable, and is apparently disliked by everyone because of their bridge related shenanigans?

“Seriously, fuck this bridge.”

It was only after Ned looked up at him, and the Greatjon started laughing, that Petyr realized he had aired his final observation out loud instead of simply screaming it inside his own head. He was in attendance of a meeting of the commanders of the Army of the North, and while technically Petyr didn’t have any troops to command, his position of being the army’s chief logistics officer meant he was invited along to the serious meetings, which the history geek in him was loving, after all it might be a fantasy world, but the planning and such was no different than it was at Agincourt. And while medieval Europe was not his wheel house, that was interwar Europe, it was still pretty interesting.

“While I agree Lord Baelish, it is an unfortunate reality that we have to deal with. Maybe Walder Frey is being completely honest and he simply hasn’t received instruction from Riverrun to let us pass, or maybe he has another stake in this game, but like it or not, The Twins is our only real option to continue our march on Riverrun and to meet up with the armies from the Riverlands and the Vale, and so that means we will have to wait.”

At Ned’s announcement there was some grumbling from among the assembled Lords, but no-one actually spoke up against the decision that “The Stark” had made, instead they began to file out of the tent with the exceptions of Lord Manderly, Lord Karstark, Lord Bolton, Lord Umber, Lord Glover, Howland and himself. Once the tent was empty of all but Ned’s top commanders, and Petyr, Roose Bolton cleared his throat and everyone turned their focus to him.

“It seems to me” he said in his creepy quiet voice “that while we would indeed be well served by waiting for Lord Frey to obey the orders from Riverrun to let us pass, it would still be a good idea to prepare some contingencies Lord Stark.”

Ned looked at Roose with some unease, but he nodded at the man, after all these smaller meetings existed to hash out ideas that would be otherwise unwieldy to try and organize with every Lord in the army. Petyr liked to think of them as strategic meetings, while the meetings with all the Lords were normally tactical.

“If, and I say if, Lord Frey is being dishonest in his intentions, we would be in a perilous situation, are we agreed on this?”

The other Lords nodded at the Leech Lord’s question, both Wyman Manderly and the Greatjon took these meetings seriously, so they normally toned back their bombastic attitudes in favour of being more calm and cool-headed. Well, Wyman managed to be more cool-headed anyway.

“Well then, as I see it my Lord, we would be left with one of three options. The first is that we de-camp and march down the river towards Darry. We would face no combat here, but would likely have to fight a major force deployed up the King’s Road to face us, a battle that would not be advantages to us. The second is that lay siege to the Twins, this will be difficult and likely result in loss of life, and so long as the Frey’s have the other side of the river controlled, it would be close to impossible to capture it. The third option, is that we construct some form of crossing ourselves and simply ignore the Twins, although I do not know if we could.”

It was a testament to how quiet the man spoke that it took Petyr a moment to realize that his last sentence was less of a statement and more of a question, a question directed at him. The eyes of the various Lords turned to Petyr and he had to resist the urge to try and hide in his own clothes, instead he held up a hand for silence and closed his eyes in concentration.

“I believe” he began, his voice hesitant as he spoke “that it would be possible to construct a temporary wooden bridge for the army. Ideally we would construct some small boats to float in the river and construct a bridge over their backs to the other side, however a more realistic scenario would be floating hollowed out and bound logs, or indeed enough empty barrels, and constructing a bridge over them. This would not be ideal, and the possibility that it could give way while the army crosses would be pretty serious, there is also the fact that Lord Frey would undoubtedly view it as a hostile action, and would respond in a way to cause us the most amount of damage. He would probably allow a small unit to cross the bridge, work to sabotage the bridge, and destroy the small unit that has crossed while they are completely cut off. And then we would be back to laying siege to the Twins, just with an unnecessary loss of men as well. Now in saying that Lord Stark, it is at the end of the day your order to give, and I am only here to offer advice, but I would advise against doing this. If we had known that Walder Frey was going to pull something like this all the way back at Moat Cailin, I could have begun preparations there, as it is I know that I can build a bridge if necessary, it would just be a huge risk.”

Truth be told, Petyr wished he had known this would happen, the time to prepare would have allowed him to “invent” a useful pontoon bridge design and have it as another big achievement in the résumé that he was putting together. If they were going to be stuck at the Twins for long enough, he could probably cobble something together, but truthfully he didn’t like the idea of doing something like this half-cocked.

“I understand Petyr, and I do appreciate your advice, does anyone disagree with Lord Baelish’s view on the possibility of constructing our own bridge?”

No-one did, and Ned turned to face Roose Bolton.

“Very well. Roose, I would like you to quietly make preparations for a siege. No actions that could draw the attention of the Freys, or if they do, no actions that can’t be reasoned to be something else. Greatjon, Rickard and Wyland, do your best to make a big production of settling into the area to wait, make the Freys think we are relaxed and totally content with their explanation, however, also keep your men ready to march across the bridge if we are given permission. Howland, can your men make it to the other side of the river quietly?”

Petyr looked over at Howland Reed who smiled before he answered.

“It should be an overcast night, my men and I can head a league upstream from here and cross over to the other side without anyone in the Twins knowing.”

Ned nodded.

“Good, well that is what I want you to do. Once across get as close to the other side as you feel comfortable without being detected. If the worst comes to pass, I want you to be able to cut off their supplies to the other side of the river as best as you can, or even take the fortification if they are lax in its security. If however we cross without incident, meet back up with the army when we have crossed, and make a show of your appearance so we can let Lord Frey know that we weren’t totally prepared to wait on him. Galbert, I want you and your men to start sourcing nearby lumber in case we need it. Petyr, I would like you to look into the possibility of building a bridge of some sort, or at least making the preparations to do so. If the situation calls for it I would rather have us decamp downriver a ways and make a crossing out of sight of the Twins. Also, as the person here with the most experience of the Riverlands, I was wondering if you had an idea of how long it might be before we know if Lord Frey is playing us for fools.”

Petyr pursed his lips in thought, he did some calculations in his head as he thought on everything “he” knew from his time as a fosterling.

“Figure three days for the message to go from here to Riverrun and to receive a reply, throw in an extra two days of Walder Frey playing his own games before he finally does what he is told. So if after five days he still isn’t letting us pass, I’d say then that something is awry.”

“Very well then. If after five days we still have heard nothing from Lord Frey I may have new orders for you all, for now though I would request that you start on the tasks I have assigned you.”

The various Lords stood up and mumbled platitudes to Ned before leaving, he may be a younger Lord and he may never have supposed to be the Lord of Winterfell, but there was no denying that Ned Stark was _the_ Stark and all the respect that commanded was given freely.

*******

It had been two days since Ned had told him to get to planning on how to construct a bridge, and honestly the preparations for that task had been rather trivial. He had a lot of manpower he could call upon to complete such a task, the tools to accomplish the task were easily found within the army, even if the bridge would be a very rough job. He still thought that it would be a pretty dangerous proposition, but if it had to be done, it had to be done. It would also be a dangerous enough project, but he knew he could find volunteers to work on that if he needed to. He looked with a grin on his face towards the men that were currently up to their wastes digging trenches away from the army, the trenches were latrines and the men doing the task had been assigned to it due to their failure to obey the order to use the latrines, or had been using barrels for firewood, and while Petyr would have rather break out the thumbscrews for those fuckers, assigning them to latrine duty had placated him somewhat. Talking Ned into shaking up the camp layout, and camp hygiene, had been a hell of a lot easier than he had expected. Getting him to see the sense of having the soldiers use a latrine a ways away from the camp, and especially the army’s water supply, had been as simple as a short conversation, and he had been assisted in his point by both Lord Manderly, who understood sewer systems, and Lord Bolton, whose obsession with good health was almost OCD. Petyr turned away from the men working in the latrines, and tied back up the front of his breeches, and started to make his way towards the large collection of tents that didn’t fall into the more orderly lines of the army.

This collection of tents was the nomadic home of the camp followers of the Northern Army, and Petyr had long given up trying to count them. Inside and around the tents was a veritable travelling town, shops selling anything that a soldier could want, enterprising brewers trying their hands at cheap taverns, journeymen smiths with portable forges doing work on swords and armour and prostitutes offering the average soldier negotiable affection. In and around them were the various wives and children of some of the soldiers, individuals who had elected to follow their menfolk off to the war instead of simply sitting at home. They did not have an easy life on the move, and truth be told they slowed down the Northern Army somewhat, but they were a fact of life, and many had taken up any number of trades to try and make the experience worthwhile. One such individual was who Petyr was in search of, and after finding the light grey pavillion tent, he made his way inside and waited.

Inside the tent women were busy either cleaning, mending, or even making clothes. A group of soldiers were inside waiting, men of House Forrester if he read their house colours correctly, and upon noticing him they started to raise to their feet. He simply waved them down and made his way over to the old women that was propped up behind what passed for a desk, and as he crossed the room he put on his widest smile.

“Ros! You look younger than the last time I saw you, whatever you use to keep your youth must be working.”

The old woman gave him a look that could best be described as ‘fucking really?’ and shook her head.

“I earned all of my fifty name days Lord Baelish, and every mark and wrinkle on my body is a testament to surviving them, I’ve seen more Winters than living grand-children, and so I long ago learnt to ignore the appeals to my vanity that men would offer. You will be here about your clothes I gather?”

“I am indeed oh vision of loveliness.”

“Very well, wait here and I’ll rummage them up, have a Wedge if you must while you wait.”

She accompanied that sentence with both an eye roll and a point towards a small plate of sandwiches that was placed near some stools for people waiting on their clothes. Well, that was inaccurate, it was a small plate of “Wedges” and that was entirely his fault. He had been in the middle of going to and fro on the road south from Moat Cailin when, like any self-respecting 21st century man, he had made himself a sandwich to alleviate his hunger on the move. When during his lunch, he had essentially inhaled the sandwich, consisting of two slices of day old brown bread, sharp cheddar like Northern cheese and salted ham, his various peons had looked on at what he was eating with expressions that ranged from curiosity to total disinterest. When they had asked him what it was he was eating, he replied that it was a “Sandwich”, however his mouth had been full, so all that they had heard had been “om nom nom Wich” which they had then apparently interpreted as him trying to say “Wedge”. Initially he spared it not a second thought, but then when his lackless lackeys had dispersed throughout the army to make the same survey they had between White Harbour and Moat Cailin, they had brought their own “Wedges” with them, and from there the concept had snowballed until he had had Ned himself ask a cook for a “Bacon Wedge” one morning for breakfast, and wonder aloud who had come up with the good idea. Petyr had kept his head down at that particular breakfast after that.

He must have been ruminating on his culinary ramifications for longer than he thought as Ros returned with his clothes held over one arm very quickly.

“I believe I have the measurements correct my lord, though I had to let the sleeves out a bit and they will likely be a little short. Your breeches were easier to work with, but I don’t know how much further they will go and fixing the stitching that had given way had been easy.”

She handed him the clothes that he had paid to have worked on, they had been getting too snug and Petyr had been fresh out of other options, and changes of clothes. Lacking servants to do things like look after his clothes, he had gone through the tents of the camp followers to find someone that was able to help make his clothes fit better, and Ros had been it. Of course there were limits to what the woman could do with the resources available to her, and while the clothes would fit him better, he would need new clothes. Or he could do what the ancient Celts did, spike up his hair and charge into battle naked as the day he was born.

*******

Petyr had to admit, he felt gods damned proud of the Northern Army. When they had arrived at Riverrun there had been a ceremony were Ned and his retinue, which happily had not included him, had met with the retinues of both Jon Arryn and Hoster Tully. That done, and some words about honour said, the Northern Army had marched past to take up its position close to Riverrun and near the Vale Army. The march past had included him, mounted on his surly horse, and the Northerners had put on a show of horns, pipes, drums and just shouting that a charitable soul might call singing, but it was a medley of hundreds of songs at once. That however was not why Petyr felt pride, why he felt pride was then the Northern Army had encamped, and while it wasn’t the camp of a Roman Legion, it was a damn sight more orderly and well-kept than the Vale Army. Besides, the feeling of pride gave him something to think about as he went through the almost automatic process of erecting his tent, a task he had become so familiar with at this point he could do it on autopilot. The tent erected, he got to setting up his small baggage and had only just managed to get his ink pots placed when a familiar voice had veritably boomed from the tents entrance.

“Setting up your own tent, managing logistics, volunteering to march with the Northern Army and swearing yourself a sworn-shield to Ned Stark, Gods Mockingbird, I must ask who you are and what you have done with Petyr Baelish?”

Petyr couldn’t hide the smile on his face, too many good memories were tied into both his and Littlefinger’s memories not to, and he turned to face Brynden Tully.

“Well Blackfish, I’m not one to let grass grow under my feet these days. The world can pass me by, but I won’t get anything done if I don’t get out and do it. In saying that, I have to admit that it is good to see you again and be back at Riverrun.” He paused then, and his smile become a bitter thing “Well, as close to back at Riverrun as I will get.”

The Blackfish’s face became a scowl and he looked out of the tent at the direction of the castle that was his family’s home.

“Hoster is a man of his word, and when my brother banished you, he meant it. Jon Arryn took that without any protest when you were discussed, but as I understand it Eddard Stark has been a bit vocal in your defence.”

“Aye, he’s a good sort is Lord Stark. He didn’t have to treat me as well as he has, but I am grateful that he did. He and Cat will be a good match.”

The Blackfish gave him a curious look, his expression at once probing, sympathetic, appreciative and weary. Petyr just looked back at him, content with the fact that for once thinking about Catelyn Tully and Ned Stark didn’t cause a spasm of jealousy or envy somewhere in the back of his mind. With a cough the Blackfish looked away for a moment and then brought his attention back to Petyr.

“Trust me Petyr, to hear that from you reassures me a lot. Even with this foolishness of keeping you away from the betrothal ceremony and the wedding, it is nice to see that you’ve managed to gain a bit of a level head.”

Petyr gestured along his torso, specifically along the scar that ran along it.

“What can I say Brynden, I paid one hell of a price for it. However I have to ask if you plan on missing out on your niece’s ceremony? Only midday is fast approaching and I don’t think Cat would be happy if her Uncle wasn’t there to see her sworn off.”

“Gods you are right, and Hoster would never let me live it down. I’m off Mockingbird, but I hope to get to talk to you some more before the wedding.”

“No worries Blackfish, I don’t plan on going anywhere.”

With Brynden gone, Petyr’s tent felt a bit more hollow and empty than it had before. Truth be told he was feeling upset about not being able to attend the ceremony, and with all the people he would call friends gone to it, he was also feeling lonely. Setting up his tent had been his way of getting his mind in order, but with that done he was feeling pretty lost and pointless. He sat on his bedroll and as he did he hit the bag that had contained his ink pots, he reached over to the bag and pulled out the largest bottle that sat in that bag and looked at the stone jug. Un-corking the top he was assaulted by the smell of alcohol, its contents were a strong homebrew that peasants were fond of. It wasn’t quite whisky, but it was as rough as it and burnt like it going down, and considering the mood he was in right now, that warmth emanating from the stomach really appealed. He absently knew that drinking during the middle of the day was the sort of thing that could lead to alcoholism, but this was an exception, not the rule.

His nagging worry of turning into an alcoholic assuaged, he took a long draft from the bottle. And as the warmth spread through him, and as he coughed from the coarseness, he decided to have a second drink.

*******

_He stood in a strange place. It was at once intimately familiar, and totally alien to him. It was both a forest he didn’t recognize, and one that he did. The trees that surrounded him kept shifting, one second they were solid oak, the next white with red leaves, the next they were pine, the next willows. The sky wouldn’t stop changing either, constantly changing as if a mad god was spinning the world through day and night at a random interval, and making clouds, storms and sunshine appear all at once. What was constant though, was a glint of light off of metal. Silvery light always glinting, always glittering from the sky._

_Petyr looked for the source of the glint, and as he looked to the sky and squinted, he saw it, and in seeing it, it grew larger. A single coin, stamped with figures he couldn’t make out, spun in the air as if thrown into the air in a coin toss. He stared at it a while, trying to make out what it had on it, but he just could not, instead his eyes were drawn to something else the coin was illuminating. He stared at it, but like everything else in this strange place it kept changing, never being one thing for long, and even when it was the things did not make sense to him, no matter what they appeared to be or what he heard, he could not understand. At once there was a bell that rang as birds fought, a riot of winged creatures, that was shattered and drowned in water, from out of the water a dragon and a demon appeared shattering the world around them, so intense was their combat that Petyr covered his eyes, and when he uncovered them he saw a fire that flamed, but also did not, engulfing all and none, but even the lights from the flames that burst and disappeared was drowned out by the sight of a sunburst so bright, it blocked out all other shapes, and yet it disappeared in a snatch of a creature’s mouth jaws or fangs, the creature’s mouth changing from long to short, fur to scales. From among the teeth he saw a stag snared by a rose bush, both alive and dead at once, and as it reared its head he saw a broken smile jutting against the sky, screams coming from it, somtimes many screams, sometimes only one, but always screaming, never ending screaming. The things he was seeing were starting to get less coherent now, changing rapidly, blurring into each other, until all he saw was a world of sudden darkness and light, falling stars and rising suns. And then all he saw again was the coin, flipping end over end, again and again, and for a moment he caught a glimpse of what lay stamped on it, on both sides a harp with a bird sitting upon it._

_Then the world completely evaporated._

Petyr was groggy, dazed and confused as he was awoken from his drunken stupor. Strange thoughts and half-remembered details of his very Twin Peak’s esque dream floated around his mind, fighting with his senses as they struggled to realise who the hell was shaking him so fucking roughly. He focused his eyes, and as he did he saw Howland Reed.

“Wake up Petyr, you need to start striking camp. The army is going to be on the march and we need to get going.”

He wanted to ask for more details, but his mouth wasn’t co-operating, so the best he managed was a slurred “Whaaaa?”

Howland looked at him, and gave him a mirthless smile.

“News came in during the ceremony, Robert Baratheon was wounded at a battle in Ashford. He’s retreated North to Stoney Sept to recover, but the Mad King’s army is in pursuit. We have to break camp and march today to get there, so rise and shine, we are off to war.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter XII**

**Denys I**

Death stalked his family. For a man from the Vale, the constant danger of death from the weather, the harvests, the wildmen or the mountains that they called home was second nature. They long learned to accept it, to see its danger and the Stranger’s constant presence as little more than a challenge, or even a compliment, as if their fight among the hungry hills was so heroic a task as to draw the attention of the Seven that are One. However, as aware of death as he was, as prepared for it as he was, as comfortable with the Stranger’s presence as he was, he could not view the news that lay before him with anything less than total heartbreak. His wife and son were dying. Maester Ceredig had written to him telling him that they seemed to have developed some variation of Pox, that he was sorry he couldn’t have noticed it sooner, that the outbreak had hit the Gates of the Moon hard and that he had been run off his feet trying to save as many as he could. He felt his Uncle’s hand on his shoulder, well Annalys’s Uncle technically but they had long since given up on the specifics of their relationship, and as he turned to look at Jon Arryn, he saw a face filled with nothing but sympathy.

“I didn’t read the letter, Ceredig did write to me however alongside this one to tell me. I’m sorry Denys.”

“I know Uncle, and I hold neither you nor Ceredig responsible. I just wish I could be there, be able to see Annalys and Jasper.”

“I know Denys, it was the same for me when Elbert was murdered. I knew there was nothing I could do, but that didn’t mean I didn’t want to do anything to bring some sort of comfort to my nephew in his darkest hour, that I wouldn’t have given anything to prevent such a fate.”

His Uncle choked on the last words, and Denys felt his own head go forward. His cousin Elbert had been a light in everyone’s life in the Vale, and his murder by the mad King had been the act that had driven him to leave his wife and son to fight. That and the thought that young Robert or Eddard could be next, something that he was determined would not come to pass. Granted Robert should have returned to Storm’s End by now, and that his desire to stay with his friend in the Vale almost bordered on childishness, but to Denys he was still the younger boy that had been his charge during his fostering, and so was Ned, and neither of them would face Elbert’s fate so long as he drew breath.

“If you wish Denys, I can release you from your duties here to return to them. I will not lie to you and say you will make it in time to see them, but you may make it in time to attend their funeral.”

“No Uncle. My duty is here. If I thought for a second that my presence would cure them, that I could somehow bring them back from what Maester Ceredig tells me is a death sentence, I would ride for the Gates with a speed not seen since the days of the Dragons. But I can not, instead I shall mourn them from here, and continue on my duty.”

His Uncle patted his shoulder and looked at him wordlessly, he turned from him to outside the tent where the servants had been banished, and barked some orders before returning. He then took a seat opposite Denys, and after a few moments a servant appeared with a jug of wine and two goblets.

“Bring more soon.” His Uncle said to the servant, and as he said that he began pouring two goblets and offered one to Denys.

Nodding his head in thanks, Denys took the goblet and in one long pull drained the drink to the dregs. He held the cup out to his Uncle who refilled it without comment, and Denys drank again, this time a shorter pull but still a deep drink. He didn’t know how many drinks in he was before the tears began, but he knew that they would not be solitary tears for long.

*******

Around Denys the Army of the Vale was marching towards the walls of Stoney Sept. The sounds of thousands of men on the march were punctuated with the sound of a bell being rung in the town, and with every passing step the pace of the men seemed to quicken as the desperation to reach the walls grew. The battle plan for the day was simple, seize the gatehouses to prevent an escape for the King’s forces, sweep the city out and breakthrough to Robert Baratheon and his forces in the city. The three armies were coming from three different directions, the Northern army was coming in from the North-West, the Riverlands forces from the East, and the Vale forces from the South. The plan was for all three forces to eventually meet up in the market square in the town, and from there to find and meet up with the Baratheon forces. The sound of trumpets went out to indicate that the men should run, and like a river broken free the Vale army began to stream forwards faster and faster. Horses had been left behind, the narrow streets and alleys of the town would be no place for cavalry, and outside a small group of knights left to ride down any men that fled the town, every man that could fight was on foot.

He was maybe twenty paces from the gatehouse when he first saw the enemy, and while the man turned to let out a shout of warning, he didn’t survive a man from house Royce crossing the distance and smashing into him with an axe in hand. From there the fight was on, and Denys found himself with his longsword against a man armed with a wooden club. The man raised the club in an overhead strike, but Denys cut across his chest with ease and moved on, his target was the gatehouse, and around him other Vale soldiers came pouring in through the gates that stood open. The door into the gatehouse was blocked, but the combined impact of three men in full armour at a run quickly took care of that, inside were three men in the clothing of House Connington, armed with axes. Two of them raised their weapons and came for the valemen, but the impact of their charge was lost against the sheer weight of numbers stacked against them. In an attempt by one of them to strike one of the Valemen, Denys saw his opening and with a thrust ran his sword through the mans chest, and after twisting his blade to withdraw it he saw the other man fall to the dirk of a wounded Vale soldier. He turned his attention to the third man, who seeing what had happened to his compatriots threw his axe on the ground and his hands in the air.

“FOR THE LOVE OF THE SEVEN, I YIELD. MERCY PLEASE!”

The other men in the room looked at Denys, who simply nodded and turned to the injured man.

“Keep him under your guard, he’s disarmed and surrendered, but if he tries anything funny gut him like a fish.”

The wounded man nodded with a grimace and started barking orders at the surrendered man, Denys didn’t stay around long enough to hear them, instead he started making his way in the direction of the marketplace.

*******

The journey towards the marketplace was one of a non-stop skirmish. Every few paces there was a fight that he had to take part in, whether it was a lone enemy in an alleyway, a group of enemies defending a bakery as if it was Harrenhall in its prime, or even a fight up a flight of stairs that brought him onto rooftops. The battle was no grand set piece affair, it was no great clash of armies on an open field, it was no legend, it was simply a mindless brutal slaughter through every single place in the town. And yet, amongst all the violence and chaos, Denys continued to advance. He knew he was tired, but his bloodlust and fear was keeping him going, and as he turned a street he heard the yelled battlecry of “FAMILY! DUTY! HONOUR!” and saw an open square centred around a fountain shaped like that of the Tully family sigil.

Around the fountain, Riverlands men clashed with the King’s men, and as he looked on he saw a man in the livery of House Connington, possible Lord Jon himself, clash with Hoster Tully, or at least a man that wore Hoster Tully’s armour. Denys took a moment to look on at the violence erupting across the square before him, and for a moment he felt his weariness, his tiredness, and desired nothing more than to lay down his arms away from the fight and rest. Instead he readjusted his grip on his sword, took a deep breath to center himself, and charged the nearest enemy he saw. The man had a sword and mail, but his mail was poorly kept and as he reacted to Denys’s presence, his reaction time betrayed that he was also wounded. He swung a clumsy blow at Denys, and flinched away as Denys not only caught his blow on his sword, but redirected it away with an almost contemptuous flick. His enemy’s chest exposed, Denys brought his sword quickly up and then down in a fierce slash across his chest, cutting through the rusted chainmail and opening the other mans insides open to the world around him.

He whirled then as a man with an axe tried to catch him unawares, he took two quick steps back and readjusted himself. The man swung again and Denys took the blow along his pauldron, allowing it to scrape against his armour and draw the man off balance. The manoeuvre worked and Denys smashed into the back of the other mans head with the flat of his blade, and as he fell to the cobblestones, Denys brought his sword down into the back of the mans neck. That done he turned again to advance further into the fight and then he heard men shouting, it took a moment for him to hear them over the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears, but once he did he felt shock.

“TULLY HAS FALLEN!”

“THE TROUT IS FALLEN!”

“A GRIFFIN! A GRIFFIN!”

If Hoster Tully had fallen, then the Riverlands men would be starting to break up. Connington and his men would probably manage to reorganize and either fortify their position or follow the Riverlands men back out of the town in a retreat. He could not let that happen, he had to rally the soldiers of the Riverlands and other friendly men nearby. He looked around, and saw that the square was more empty than it had been when he had arrived, but he managed to spot Connington then, walking away from the lump that was Hoster Tully. Seeing the younger man, the new Hand of the King, Denys felt his bloodlust grow and he started towards him, as he did he felt parched lips open in a snarling gesture and he roared with all his might.

“AS HIGH AS HONOUR!”

He advanced quickly, screaming his battlecry as he came, focused entirely on one target. At one point an enemy soldier, moved between him and Connington, and tried to catch him on a spear. He batted the spear away with his sword, gripped it with one hand to prevent the enemy soldier from recovering with it, and simply stabbed through his stomach with the point of his sword. Connington was now coming towards him, and around them the square was emptying as the fighting spread away from it. They came to within an arms reach of each other, and stopped, both men holding their swords ready but eyeing the other.

“Ser Denys Arryn I believe? Is it possible that I might be able to talk you into yielding this day? You merely serve your Cousin’s treachery and I am certain that the King would let you simply take the Black.”

“No Lord Connington, I will not yield this day. You may have bested a trout, but it is time you find a Falcon is a harder game.”

“What is a Falcon to a Griffin, if not prey?”

With that Connington charged forward with his sword in a powerful two-handed strike. If Denys hadn’t expected such a move from the younger man, it might have been enough to throw him off guard, but instead he simply quickly moved back and brought his own sword down on Connington’s as it went past. The ring from the two swords was loud and Connington quickly pulled his blade back and into a mid-guard position. Denys had to admit that Connington was fast, and his youth probably meant he was more willing to take rash moves in combat, but Denys was older without being infirm and frail. He had been training at martial skills his entire life, and compared to the brute force that Robert Baratheon could put out, Jon Connington was a breeze against a gale-force. And Denys had one other advantage that Connington did not, he had nothing left to lose.

He brought his sword forward in a tight slashing move as he advanced forwards, and as Connington moved to intercept the slash he changed it to a broader upwards strike driving Connington back towards the fountain. As he did he felt, more so than saw, his vision starting to turn red. He had thoughts of his wife, of his son, of the pain that knowing he would lose them, of his anger and frustration that he could do nothing for them, and he fed all of these emotions into his movements, letting them add strength and determination to his strikes. As Connington backed up, Denys narrowly missed his head with a blow and instead removed the mans helm in an upward stroke. That done he could see the red-headed man’s face, and while his face was set in a look of total concentration to counter Denys’s moves, Denys also saw just a bit of worry and fear in his eyes, and seeing that reinforced his bloodlust. He threw more of his strength behind his blows, kept up his advance and focused on nothing but forcing Connington to the fountain and pinning him there. When Connington jolted as he moved back, his leg hitting against the fountain, Denys felt a predatory smile cross his face. He brought his sword in a quick jabbing stab, and when Connington moved to block it, he quickly pulled back and turned it into an overhead swing. Connington seemed to realise the feint too late, and Denys stepped forward to throw everything he could into the strike.

That was when his foot tried to find purchase among a mound of human offal and wet cobblestone, and when it failed it pulled him forwards in a fall. His impact against the stone of the fountain dazed him, and he felt his sword slip from his fingers and hit into the water of the fountain with a splash. He was now unarmed and defenceless against a man who he had been trying so hard to kill. A blow struck the end of his sword arm and he felt the bone snap there as the blade failed to pierce through his armour, he rolled back in pain and found himself looking at Connington over him, the fear and worry in his eyes replaced with a gleeful anger, his sword placed point first over his neck.

“Well fought Ser Denys, with how you fought you could possibly have given Barristan the Bold a run for his money this day, but now it is time for you to choose whether you live or die. Will you yield?”

Denys was wounded, he was not going to be doing any more fighting today or for many days with a broken arm. If he surrendered now, it would not be without honour, and Connington was probably correct in that the King would let him take the Black. With one hand he removed his helm, and looked at the Lord Connington, and as he did his mind was made up.

“And be murdered like my cousin Elbert? Nay Lord Connington, I will not yield.”

Connington looked at him, and nodded. He readjusted his grip on his sword and Denys closed his eyes. His thoughts went to his family, and he felt a smile on his face as they did.

‘Elbert, I shall see you soon, and together we shall welcome Annalys and Jasper.’

“Go on then Connington, do your duty.”

Denys felt the movement from Connington as his sword moved away from his neck, probably to get more momentum behind the blow, and he braced himself for the blow that would come, determined to see his family again, one way or the other, and he heard Connington adjust himself for the strike.

His final thought was of his wife.

‘Soon’ he thought ‘soon.’

But the blow didn’t come. Instead there was the sound of running feet, an impact, and then a splash of water. Denys opened his eyes and looked in the fountain were two figures were writhing among the water. One of them was certainly Jon Connington, but the other one was one he did not recognize, simply a man in a breastplate and mail that seemed to writhe and twist around Connington. The water around the pair started to turn red, and while Connington brought his sword down to try and strike the other man, the blade was too long to be effective in such a fight, instead the best he could do with it was smack him with the flat of the blade and the pommel. Ignoring the pain in his sword arm, and thanking the Warrior for this reprieve, Denys looked in the fountain and saw his sword. Grasping at it with his off-hand he managed to pull it out of the water and hold it as he watched the men continue to fight. Connington would try and hit the other man with any blow he could, try and drive him off him so as to place himself in a better position to strike with his sword, but the other man would stick to him like a cornered rat to a predator, his every move designed to keep his grapple of Connington and stop him from being more dangerous, he also kept moving one of his hands in a stabbing motion, and while he was probably finding it hard to break through Connington’s armour, the red colour of the water surely meant he was succeeding a bit.

Recovering his feet, Denys stood up and with an effort pulled himself into the fountain, he tried to position himself in such a way as to help this stranger, but they were too tangled up for him to even think of approaching. Finally Connington’s head arched back in a howl of pain, and Denys took his opportunity. His sword came around and was sure to open Connington’s throat, but his speed with his off-hand wasn’t as good and he missed as Connington managed to twist to avoid the blade, but while he avoided Denys’s one, he did not avoid the other mans. The other man’s hand darted out of the water and he dug his dagger into Jon Conningtons left eye, and while not a fatal blow, Connington released his sword as both hands went for his eye that was now pouring blood into the fountain. The other man let out an oath, and hesitated, but then drove his dagger forward again into Connington’s neck which caused him to go stiff. The other man pulled his dagger back out from the wound and in an effort threw himself backwards away from the now thrashing Connington, scuttling backwards in the water to get away from the man. After a moment, the thrashing form of Jon Connington went still, and after Denys poked the body with his sword to make sure, he found himself sinking to his knees in the fountain.

The other man retched into the water then, and Denys didn’t blame him in the slightest. Once he was finished throwing his guts up though, the other man stood up on shakey legs and spoke.

“This…this has been one cataclysmic clusterfuck of a day.”

Denys looked at the man, the profanity was simply a variation on one he knew quite well, but he had only ever heard a Maester use the word “cataclysmic” before. The other man turned to look at Denys, and from his open faced helm Denys recognized the man. Granted, the last time he had seen him the mans face didn’t have quite as many little cuts on it, and he hadn’t been leaking blood from his lips, but it was definitely the same man that had been at his Uncle’s court seven months ago.

“Lord Baelish?”

The man jumped a bit, and looked at Denys closer, as he did he dropped his dagger into the water of the fountain. Denys looked at it as it rested in the water, and saw among Connington’s blood and Baelish’s bile that it wasn’t a dagger, but a sword hilt with parts of a broken blade sticking out of it.

“As I said Ser Denys. One grade A clusterfuck of a day.”

And with that, Baelish’s knees seemed to buckle under him and he retched again.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

**Petyr X**

Petyr moved with the rest of the Northern Army, and as he did he tried to ignore the overwhelming desire he had to start running in the other direction. This was no sparring contest, this was no re-enactment, this was the real fucking deal and if he made one mistake he would likely die this day. He tried to funnel his nerves into something more useful, anything else, and he barely noticed his right hand leaving his crossbow to adjust the grey piece of cloth around his arm to designate him as part of the Northern Army.

_“Every soldier will wear one of these, grey for the Northern Army, blue for the Vale Army, green for the Riverlands Army.”_

Ned’s voice sounded in his head, and he turned to look at his grim faced friend who marched purposefully among the soldiers from Winterfell alongside Petyr. Ice almost seemed too big in his hands, but with the amazing properties of Valyrian Steel, Petyr knew that he could wield it with deceptive ease. Ned had also been the one that had outlined what the battle plan was for this madness, simply to take and hold the three gates into the town, advance through the town, and slaughter any man wearing the colours of a Royalist house. He had also been the one to talk to Petyr the previous night about the upcoming fight.

_“Petyr, if you don’t want to fight I will not force you. You have performed excellently in arranging our supply lines and logistics, you’ve taken a load off my shoulders that I did not need there as I tried to lead this army, and to that I am grateful. No man would call you craven if you chose to remain with the rear-guard for the battle, or if they did any true soldier of the North would quickly correct them.”_

_Ned spoke with an almost burning intensity, and Petyr felt shocked at just how genuine he seemed as he spoke. Truth be told it was very tempting, he could remain with the rear-guard and stay safely out of the way of the combat. Ned had plot armour anyway, so it wasn’t like he needed Petyr along to help keep him safe, after all he would survive the whole Rebellion. But others weren’t guaranteed that, men would die this day and they would probably be men he liked and respected, foolish as it would be, he did not think he could face their ghosts for the rest of his life if he shirked away to the rear._

_“Aye Ned, and I appreciate the offer, but what sort of a man would I be to help men go into danger and then shirk from it myself? It may not be the wise decision, but I would march along you if you would have me.”_

In retrospect, he really wished he had decided to try and live with the survivors guilt that he didn’t even have yet, instead of marching across the ground towards the town. Ned had told him to stick close to him in the fighting, and Petyr was determined to do just that, or at least as close as he could and still use his crossbow safely. He checked the quarrel of bolts that he had at his side with one hand, an action he had done so many times in the march towards the town that it had become second nature to him, and he had to resist the urge to all but jump out of his skin as the pipes and horns sounded for the men to charge the last short distance. He ran as fast as he could over the ground, both hands holding the primed crossbow to his chest like a precious cargo, and he saw the first fights of the day ahead of him as men in Umber colours smashed into the few royalists that were guarding the gatehouse. He kept moving forward, trying to keep his vision on Ned, and as he passed through the gates he tried to ignore the sight of dead bodies on the ground. It was not the first time he had seen death up close and personal, but that didn’t mean he was de-sensitized to it. The men in Stark colours, armoured like himself in mail, breastplate, and open faced helm, started to flow around him as they charged after their Stark, and as they turned the corner to a nearby street, Petyr lost all sight of Ned in the sea of grey-clad men. He tried to catch up when the sounds of violence clashed against his ears, men were fighting, screaming, and dying in front of him, and in the packed streets of the town of Stoney Sept, his crossbow would be next to useless.

He knew he needed to get somewhere with a better vantage point, that from above he might be able to pick a few men off without the possibility of hitting friendlies, so he turned off into a side street in search of a building that would afford him such a vantage point. As he searched, however, he found himself getting lost, around him he could hear the sounds of violence, but that was only helping his sense of disorientation to grow as he found himself all but stumbling down the streets from the sensory overload of it all. He came around a corner and braced himself against the wall of a building, and to centre himself he stared at the building to try and get an idea of what was going on. The building was a bakery, and beside the main entrance into the shop, a stairs led up into the second floor of the building. It was clearly abandoned, and Petyr was about to start moving away when from across the street from him, three armed men came out of a side street and looked at him. He didn’t know whose men they were, but they didn’t wear the armbands of the various armies, and from the blood on them they had seen combat already. They stood there staring at him for a moment, and Petyr stared back, hoping that maybe this would just be it if they stared at each other, but then as one the three men started running towards him.

Petyr turned towards the bakery and started running up the stairs, he just managed to get to the top of them when he heard one of the men make footfall on the first step behind him. Petyr whirled around, aimed the crossbow as best he could, and loosed the bolt at the man. He was rewarded with the sound of a grunt and the sight of the man going down clutching his stomach, however a second man was right behind the first, and pulled his comrade out of the way to start charging up the stairs at Petyr. Petyr knew he didn’t have time to reload, or to draw his sword, so he did the only thing he could do, and threw his crossbow at the man with all his strength. His crossbow was a heavy enough device of metal and wood, and while he didn’t hit his intended target in the head like he hoped, it did collide with the mans legs and cause him to trip up the stairs. The man started to swear, but Petyr didn’t have time for this, instead he bolted through the door at the top of the stairs into what had been the bakers home. He moved to the right of the doorway, and pulled his sword out of its sheath, and as luck would have it, he was rewarded with the third man of the trio coming running in through the door looking for him.

He didn’t hesitate, and swung his sword in a strong two handed blow at the man’s mid-section, the man’s un-armoured mid-section, and was rewarded for his efforts with the feeling of the sword biting into flesh, and the man letting out a gurgling scream. Petyr wrenched his sword back, and fought down the urge to start throwing up that he felt as the man before him fell to the ground trying to hold his own blood and gore in. He heard the sound of more footsteps in the bakery below, and the voice of one of the men on the stairs yelling at the newcomers to follow him up the stairs. He looked around and saw a piece of wood to bar the door from the inside, and scrambled to do it, but as he did he knew that it would be a temporary reprieve at most. The sounds of footsteps on stairs, followed by the sound of impact from blows on the door reinforced this belief, and Petyr started to look around for something, anything else he could use. His options weren’t good, all he had to him now was his sword, and a position that while defensible, wouldn’t stay that way for long, he needed to get out of here, but the only way was through an unknown number of angry and dangerous men.

Well, it wasn’t the only way, and as Petyr looked around he saw the windows in the building consisted of holes in the walls with shutters, no glass, and the holes were big enough that a man could probably just about fit through. He looked out the nearest window, and saw that there was a small building with a flat roof pretty close, it would be difficult but he might just make it. He started to clamber through the window, and at the sound of an axe smashing through the door behind him, he jumped out of reflex. Doing this caused his footing to shift enough that he went forward, and as he fell out the window face first, he saw not the roof of the nearby building, but the mud and cobblestone street of the alley between the two buildings rushing up to meet him, as it came closer he shut his eyes. The impact would probably have been deadly if he hadn’t been wearing armour, as it was his face still slammed into the ground, his right knee almost broke, or at least felt like it, and he felt something snap near his right arm. He rolled over in pain, and while he wanted to cry out he put his left hand in his mouth to smother his cries. If the soldiers found him in this state, he would be dead, so he needed to stay quiet and when he opened his eyes again he was looking up at a slight wooden roof of a shed or shelter of some kind. He lay there, cries of pain smothered by his left hand for a time, he didn’t know how long as his concept of time was not existent in the face of the pain to his body. Eventually, when he was sure that the soldiers in the house had given up looking for him, he rocked himself up onto his left knee and stood up. He tried to use the point of his sword to help prop him up, an action he had learned from years of sword training, and when the point wasn’t were it was supposed to be he looked at it.

His sword had broken roughly two inches up from the hilt, a central piece was still sticking out like a dagger, but the rest of the blade was gone. He scanned the ground and saw the rest where he had hit the ground, he had still had his sword in hand, and while his brain wasn’t working at full capacity right now, he guessed that the point must have dug in between two cobblestones when the impact of his weight on the pommel had snapped the steel. It meant what had been his arming sword, now was almost useless, but it was still all he had. With a bit of effort he managed to stand up, and turning his head from side to side, tried to see an exit out of the alley he was in. Hopefully his crossbow would still be in the bakery, and the soldiers would have moved off so he could recover it, he first had to get out of this alley, and he started to limp towards the nearest end of it in the hopes of just doubling back. When he got to the opening at the end of the alley, he found himself looking out across a battlefield. It was an open square with a fountain in it, probably the towns market-square, and strewn everywhere were bodies of men. Some of the corpses were wearing the green armbands of the Riverlands Army, some were not, and he could swear he saw one body in the armour of Hoster Tully laying on the ground near the fountain.

Movement by the fountain caught his attention, and he saw a man with a blue armband in Arryn colours fighting a man in red and white. The man in red and white had lost his helm, and the man in the Arryn colours had him pinned against the fountain. Petyr leaned against the mouth of the alleyway, the area was probably safe and he was tired, besides the Arryn man was clearly winning and didn’t need his help. He watched as the Valeman went forward with a two-handed swing, and his heart hit his throat when he saw the man slip and crash into the side of the fountain. The man in red and white, moving out of the way of the strike, moved around and brought his sword down on the arm of the Valeman, and he rolled around in pain, clutching his arm, and faced the man in red and white. Petyr swore quietly to himself, he had to do something, but all he had was the ruined remains of his sword and a nearly broken body. Neither man had noticed him yet, and they seemed to be talking now, but if he was going to interfere he would have to act now.

‘Fuck it’ he thought as he started to move in a shambling run towards the back of the man in red and white, all the while starting to quietly giggle as he thought of screaming Leroy Jenkins as his battle cry of stupidity. He slammed into the back of the man in red and white, just as he had been prepared to strike down Petyr’s fellow Valeman, and the running impact carried them both over the edge of the fountain and into the water. The cold shock of the water hit Petyr, but he had to ignore it as he found himself wrapping himself around the other man in an attempt to grapple with him. They were writhing and Petyr tried to stab the man through his armour, but his makeshift dagger wasn’t working. He felt the impact of the flat of a sword hit his back, but the blow was weak and Petyr just gritted his teeth to ignore it and continue his grip, striking what blows he could in the hope that he might just be able to survive this fucking day. Eventually his blade found an opening in the other man’s armour, and he felt the man shudder and throw his head back in pain. Petyr pulled the dagger back out, and started to move it to stab the man in his exposed throat, any hesitation towards violence he may have once had was now gone, he had to get a killing blow in, and he felt something pass over his head and his opponent ducked to avoid it. As he did Petyr’s blow kept coming, and instead of going into the mans throat, it went into his left eye. The man howled in pain and moved his hands to cover his eye that was now bleeding, Petyr wrenched his hand and weapon back.

“Fuck.” he swore aloud, he had not meant to do that, but the man was now in serious pain as blood came pouring out. He also was leaving his throat exposed, so Petyr moved his hand forward in a stabbing blow and went straight through the man’s throat, that done, he threw himself as far back from the man as he could as he started thrashing around in the water of the fountain. After what felt like an age, the corpse of his opponent lay still, and the Valeman, who had recovered poked at it with a sword to make sure. The bloodlust that had been controlling his actions in the fight gone, Petyr started to throw up into the water, the fight had been a dirty close up thing, and he felt shaky as he started to stand up to get away from his own vomit. He felt his grip on his makeshift dagger loosening, and as he stood up he found himself speaking aloud to himself more than anything else.

“This…this has been one cataclysmic clusterfuck of a day.”

He hadn’t meant it to warrant a response from the other living man, even though he had turned to look at him, but he spoke in response with a voice that Petyr recognized.

“Lord Baelish?”

The recognition of the voice, and someone recognizing him, caused him to jump a bit in the surprise of his borderline deliriously tired mind. The fact that he also had no problems thinking of himself as that name, even in a situation like this, shocked him some more and he felt the pommel of his sword slip from his grasp and fall into the water.

“As I said Ser Denys. One grade A clusterfuck of a day.”

And with that he felt his legs give way underneath him as more vomit came up to leave him alongside the adrenaline of the day.

*******

He and Ser Denys were sat down on the cobblestones propped up against the stone of the fountain. He was so tired he didn’t care about the mounds of bodies around them, all he wanted to do was sleep for a solid week. In front of them Hoster Tully was being carried away on a stretcher, he had taken a wound to head and another one to the gut and chosen to play dead. The Maester that had come to see him had been certain he would live, his opponent had apparently not mortally wounded him, and if anyone thought he was a coward for playing dead, they weren’t mentioning it. Jon Arryn, Ned and Robert Baratheon were also grouped together in front of them, and they were discussing the battle, but Petyr was too tired to try and hear them. They were occasionally looking over in he and Deny’s direction, or more specifically at the body that lay near Petyr where a couple of soldiers had fished it out of the fountain, and Petyr felt a question forming in his mind, so he turned to Denys.

“Denys?”

“Hmm?”

“Who was it that I killed?”

He watched Denys turn to look at him with a face that was equal parts confusion and bemusement.

“That was Lord Jon Connington, hand of the King and commander of the forces we were fighting.”

“Oh, ok.” Petyr shifted his grip on the hilt of the sword that now lay across his lap, it had been Connington’s, but now it was his, and while a longsword would be a bit big for him, it wasn’t as big as it once might have been. As he sat and let his mind wander, he felt a peculiar thought go through his head, specifically he was thinking about the man he had killed.

‘The name sounds familiar, but he couldn’t have been important, otherwise he would have shown up by Season 5.’

*******

It was the next day, and late in the afternoon when Petyr finally roused from his bedroll. He had been helped into it by Bran Mason who had been sporting a bandage around his forehead. Once there, and helped to shrug out of his armour, he had fallen into a deep undisturbed sleep, and judging from the relieved melancholic mood that permeated the soldiers of the combined armies, he was sure he wasn’t the only one. As he stood up, he all but tripped over a pile of armour he didn’t recognize, and seeing the note that had been with it on the floor, he picked it up and managed to read Mason’s childlike hand writing.

_“Waz toold to put armorr here, Ser Denys had it cent, sayz it iz yours now from dead lord. Lord Stark wantz to cee you when awaake. Mazon.”_

Petyr looked again at the armour, it had been Connington’s, and he knew it wouldn’t fit him, but it was his now and he would have to do something with it. He looked at the bare sword that was laying on the ground near his writing desk, and started to root in the armour until he found the scabbard, he belted it on and returned his new sword to the leather scabbard with its griffin details, and determined to find someone to make him a more plain one when he could. That done he started off in the direction of the Stark command tent, getting to it was easy ever since the Northern Army had adopted a standard layout for its camps, and he was on autopilot and nearly strode into it when he noticed that there wasn’t just the usual Stark soldiers on guard at the tent. Beside them stood men in the blue and red of Tully, the blue and white of Arryn and the black and gold of Baratheon. Petyr was about to make discretion the better part of valour when the flap to the tent opened and Ser Denys, his right arm in a sling, stepped out and saw him.

“Lord Baelish! I must admit I was wondering if you were ever going to rouse from your slumber, come in.”

Petyr followed the older knight into the tent, and as he did he saw that not only was it full to capacity, but the eyes of almost everyman in it turned to look at him as he was all but pushed towards the centre of the tent by Ser Denys. Once there he saw Ned, a bandaged Hoster Tully, Jon Arryn and a bandaged Robert Baratheon sitting in chairs around a map, they were all staring at him now instead of the map, and Petyr really, really wished he had run away from the tent now. Instead he swallowed, and then bowed in his best courtly manner towards them.

“Lord Arryn, Lord Stark, Lord Tully, Lord Baratheon. It is good to see you all survived the battle, the Seven know that many did not.”

He saw that Jon Arryn was about to say something when Robert Baratheon thundered in a jovial tone.

“Aye the Gods know they did, and among the dead lay a blasted traitorous Griffin, brought low by a songbird. Ser Denys tells a tall tale about you Lord Baelish, and how you saved his life while taking that of the Hand of the King, I thought it fantasy if I am honest, but seeing you there, beaten and bruised with the Griffin’s sword on your belt, I have no doubt in my mind now. So tell us the tale then, from your perspective.”

Petyr looked away from Bobby B, and at Jon Arryn who gave him a simple curt nod, and he started to tell them about how his battle went. When he mentioned throwing his crossbow as a weapon, that elicited howls of laughter from the assembled Lords and Knights, ditto again when he mentioned falling out the window. When he spoke of his actual confrontation with Connington however, the tent went almost silent as they listened in, and while he would pray for such an audience in a dramatic setting, the reality of the act was too raw in his mind to allow him to give it the theatrical spin that he probably should have.

“..and then I threw up some more, my nerves and excitement leaving me on my hands and knees in the fountain. If Ser Denys hadn’t helped me back to my feet I likely would have died of drowning.”

There was more laughter and cheering at that, and he felt Ser Denys’s hand slap into his shoulder in a comradely way as a jug of ale was passed into his hands. The noise ended quickly though as Jon Arryn raised his hands for silence, and all attention went to him.

“Lord Petyr Baelish, while you did no more than that which was asked of you, you also saved the life of my heir, for that I would proclaim now and in front of witnesses, that a debt of honour is owed to you by House Arryn. When this war is over, we will need to discuss exactly in which way your future lays.”

There was then a look from Arryn to Tully, and Hoster Tully looked at him and stood with a wince.

“Lord Baelish, I also wish to state that in light of the capability you have shown in your time since leaving Riverrun, that my actions to banish you from my castle home would have been ill thought out, instead I would be honoured if you would return to Riverrun with us as a guest for the marriage of Lord Stark and my daughter Catelyn.”

“My Lord Tully, I would be honoured to do so, and I must say that any capability I have shown since my own rash actions in Riverrun, is owed entirely to the raising and education that I received within your walls.”

As he spoke that platitude, and watched the Old Trouts smile, he moved his gaze towards the other member of House Tully that was standing behind the Old Trout, the Blackfish also smiled, and if the subtle hint Petyr was giving was lost on anyone else, it wasn’t lost on him.

*******

The meeting in the tent eventually turned into a celebration of the living, and that in turn spilled out into the grounds of the camp instead of staying in one tent. He could have easily stayed in the tent among the highest levels of company, but instead he found himself outside with a mug of ale sharing company with Howland Reed and the Blackfish. The Crannoigman was not a fan of being in trapped party spaces, and the Blackfish didn’t particularly associating with his brother, and right now they were filling him in on what had happened after the battle.

“We would have had the lot of them if Hoster hadn’t gotten injured. The fight went out of a lot of our men because they thought he was dead, and while I tried to rally them as best I could, the damn Kingsmen pushed us back from the gate we were holding and broke out. Ser Myles Mooton was leading their vanguard, and while he was injured he was still going strong. Apparently Robert Baratheon managed to injure him, but a bunch of the men fighting under Mooton apparently worked to get Rheagar’s squire out of the way of the Stag. We reckon they will be retreating back towards Darry and the Kingsroad towards King’s Landing, and while the army could pursue them, we are a bit too worn out from the slaughter in the town.”

The Blackfish took a pull from his goblet of wine after he said that, and Howland spoke into the silence that descended.

“And besides, Lord Hoster wants that wedding sorted out.”

“Aye, that too. My brother already had my niece lose one Stark husband, he’ll be cold in the ground before he lets her lose a second. On the plus side though, at least Lord Stark talked him into recanting his idiotic banishment of you Mockingbird.”

That made Petyr start and he began coughing on his ale, the other two men smiled and when Petyr finally got his breathing back under control again to speak, he did.

“Oh he did? How?”

“He simply told Hoster that he wanted you at the wedding, and that if your actions both in the Northern Army and today didn’t prove that you were a different lad than the one he had banished, then he was mistaken. Then he threatened to have the wedding outside the walls of Riverrun, and Hoster seemed to get angry when I started suggesting nearby spots that would make for a good wedding venue.”

“Nah, he’d never get away with that if he tried. Hoster might relent, but Cat has always wanted to be married in a Sept, after all tis that not always the way in the stories?”

“True, true. Anyway gentlemen, I think it is time that I go drain the one-eyed monster and yes Petyr, I’ll make sure to use the latrines. After that I think I shall call it a night.”

As the Blackfish strode away, Petyr stood up and drained the remainder of his mug. That done he looked at Howland who was staring at him intensely.

“I know that look Howland, that is the look of a man who is studying a peculiar puzzle.”

Howland stood up and smiled at him.

“Yes it is, however I’m having fun figuring out this puzzle so I would ask you to let me be. Good night Petyr, I am glad that you survived.”

“Good night Howland, I’m glad you survived as well.”

They parted ways and Petyr started making his way towards his tent, as he did he found himself singing a little bit, the tune was familiar to him, even though he was sure they would be totally alien to this world.

_"There must be some kind of way out of here, "_

_Said the joker to the thief,_

_"There's too much confusion, I can't get no relief._

_Business men – they drink my wine_

_Plowmen dig my earth_

_None of them along the line_

_Know what any of it is worth."_

He clambered into his tent, and over the armour that he pushed into a corner, and he removed his sword belt and doublet as he sang some more.

_"No reason to get excited, "_

_The thief – he kindly spoke,_

_"There are many here among us_

_Who feel that life is but a joke_

_But you and I we've been through that_

_And this is not our fate_

_So let us not talk falsely now_

_The hour's getting late."_

He pulled himself into his bedroll, and as he felt his eyes closing, he let loose the one last stanza.

_“All along the watchtower_

_Princess kept their view_

_While all the women came and went_

_Bare-foot servants too_

_Outside in the cold distance_

_A wild cat did growl_

_Two riders were approaching_

_And the wind began to howl,.”_


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

**Petyr XI**

He had to admit, being shown back to “his” old room came with a sense of satisfaction, the fact that he had performed in such a way that Hoster “stubborn as a mule” Tully had had to relinquish his banishment was so pleasurable as to almost be tangential. The satisfaction, however, was combined with a whole host of half-remembered memories and tangled emotions that he hadn’t really experienced in this world so far. The Drearfort had been something that Baelish had left at such a young age that it had barely mattered, but looking around Riverrun he could see things that illuminated moments as easily as someone turning on a light switch. Over there was the tree he had first climbed to hide from Edmure after a prank had gone wrong, over there was a window he liked to sit beside and read, a bench where the Septon would occasionally lecture about the virtues of the Seven to the children, an alcove where he had once sat intimately with Lysa, the yard where Brandon Stark had cut him from neck to navel, the spot where Cat had pleaded for his life, the stone Edmure had been beside with a slight smile as he watched Petyr loose that duel, the tower he had seen when his last conscious thought as purely Petyr Baelish had flashed by, before the whim of a sadistic god meant he was no longer who he had been, and perhaps no longer who he would be. Then there was the memories of his time spent waking up in Riverrun, of constant pain, of fear that he would be found out, of the loathing that came from so many people and of killing his relationship with Lysa.

Gods, Lysa.

He was not looking forward to running into her in the two days before the wedding, or during the wedding itself, but considering the circumstances it was all but inevitable. He still hadn’t been all quite together when he had shot her down in the Godswood, he hadn’t really thought of all the implications of his actions. He also hadn’t been entirely aware of his history with her, of how their relationship had been rather serious and romantic to her point of view, while to his, it had been a roadblock to Cat. Gods, Littlefinger hadn’t been able to see what lay before him, otherwise he probably wouldn’t have put one of them on a pedestal that he could never hope to reach. It had almost been Shakespearean in its tragedy and stupidity, Lysa had loved him, was willing to do anything for him, and he had thrown it all away in the pursuit of Cat. And that had wound up fuelling so many more of Littlefinger’s issues, his ambitions and his desires to destroy the whole of Westeros, all because he put Cat on a pedestal and refused to settle for anything else. He had been the ideal of the internet “Nice Guy” taken to an extreme, and a good therapist would have had a field day with him. Luckily, at least to Petyr’s point of view, that wasn’t going to happen. George R.R. Martin had sent him into this world, and if he had thought that his life would be the same, that he would be the same monster, would make the same mistakes, he would be bitterly disappointed.

He took a moment to take a deep breath, he needed to pull his head back together as the barrage of emotions was confusing him to no end. As he closed his eyes, his hand rested on the pommel of his new sword, almost serving as an anchor back into a more stable reality. He stood there meditating for a time, the door to the room was closed so he was at least spared anyone walking past and seeing him, and as he opened his eyes again the stream of memories and emotions was firmly under control. Although, as under control as they were, he still had to resist the overwhelming urge to go to bed and curl up into a ball, no, he had to go and do _something_ or else his tenuous grasp over his emotions would doubtless slip. So he did what he often did when he needed to do something and couldn’t quite trust his mind, he set off towards the training grounds.

*******

He grunted as the knight in Mallister colours managed to land a solid blow on his mid-section, and he had to seriously try to not drop to his knees from the blow, instead he stood on shaky legs and brought his sword up in a loose guard position and tried to prepare himself for the mans next attack. He didn’t get the opportunity as he felt the impact to the side of his head before he even saw the other man move, and no amount of determination was going to keep him on his feet.

“Baelish, OUT! Mallister is the winner.”

His opponent stood over him and offered him a hand, which Petyr gladly took, and helped him up onto his feet. The Mallister said something to him, but Petyr’s head ears were ringing so much that he could only smile and nod at the other man, and once he had turned from Petyr, Petyr staggered his way over to the bench beside the water barrel and collapsed onto the rough wooden bench. The Mallister knight was the third person he had practiced with today, and had been his second loss, but he would take any number of blows to his pride and ego now over actual wounds at a later point. The fact he was using a training sword more in line with a longsword wasn’t helping, the weight was different and he was having to learn how to do things all over again, but his arming sword was gone and Gods willing, he wouldn’t be seeing actual combat again for the rest of the Rebellion. He could, of course, just simply replaced his last sword, but he had taken his new one in battle and he was determined to use it dammit. Besides, after a trip through the charnel house that was Stoney Sept after the battle, he at least had his crossbow back, so if he had to get into combat again it would hopefully be from safely behind something solid.

He plunged a wooden cup into the water barrel and drained it in one long pull, as he started to do the same again, a shadow fell over him blocking out the pleasant heat of the sun. He had to squint to make out who it was, and found the lack of surprise about who was here to annoy him vaguely unsettling.

“Edmure.”

Edmure Tully was two years his junior, but he was bigger than Petyr, and his years of fostering in Riverrun had meant that the source of his torments had been the youngest Tully. Granted, he hadn’t exactly endeared himself to Edmure over the years with his subtle retaliations, but Petyr was frankly not in the mood to deal with the Tully heir at this exact moment in time. However, as he squinted through the sun to see Edmure’s face, he could see that what Petyr wanted was going to be irrelevant.

“Beaten two out of three times Littlefinger, a remarkable improvement from when it would have been all three times, but I guess having my sister stop Brandon Stark from gutting you might have instilled some sense into you.”

There was a sniggering from behind Edmure and Petyr knew that without checking that probably meant that, at the very least, Marq Piper was on Edmure’s coat-tails as usual and playing his usual role of chief lackey. Instead of responding to him, Petyr just continued to draw a second drink of water, and stared at Edmure as he slowly drank it. For a moment, indecision flashed across Edmure’s face as clear as day, but then he opened his mouth to speak again. Petyr calmly finished his drink and put the cup back where he had found it, he stood up at the bench and gave Edmure a look before deliberately turning away from him to face the rack of training weapons. He went to move, but found Edmure had interposed himself to block his path.

“You are in my way Edmure, I need to return this training sword to the rack, then I have more important business to attend to.”

“What’s wrong Littlefinger? Going to run off and hide? Gods above, maybe the stupidity did get knocked out of you so you can be the craven you always wanted to be. Some say you did well killing Jon Connington, but you and I both know you couldn’t have defeated a real nobleman without getting to stab him in the back.”

Petyr leaned his head back in a contemplative gesture and rubbed at his chin with his left hand. He worked his mouth along words and after a moment started to point into the air with the fingers of his left hand, as if pointing to things on an imaginary chalkboard, finally he nodded and looked Edmure in the eyes with the widest smile on his face that he could manage.

“You know, I think that for once Edmure, you might actually be correct about something. Of course this doesn’t change the simple fact that Jon Connington is dead, and that so far the number of men I’ve killed is four, that is a Vale tribesman on the way to the Eyrie, two men from the Crownlands in a bakery in Stoney Sept, and the previously named Connington. Now, would you prefer we count the number of men you’ve killed? Or perhaps the number of battles you’ve engaged in? Maybe how long you’ve spent campaigning? If so I think the answers are, zero, none and fuck all in that order Edmure. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have better things to do with my time than stand around dealing with a man who couldn’t find his own arse without his friends to lick it for him.”

It was only as he finished speaking he became acutely aware of just how quiet the training grounds had gotten. He also noticed that Edmure’s face had gone from his normal complexion to the sort of purple that only an embarrassed and angry teenager could pull off. Behind him Marq Piper was staring between Petyr and Edmure, his mouth agape.

“Marq” Edmure said, his voice breaking as he spoke “fetch me a training sword.”

Petyr grinned as he held out the long training sword he had been using.

“Edmure” he said, impersonating the breaking voice in an exaggerated tone “you can use this one.”

The impersonation had the desired effect as Edmure started to positively glow with embarrassed anger.

*******

A crowd had gathered to watch the fight. Edmure’s normally hot headed nature had meant that as soon as Petyr hadn’t risen to the first barb, the master-at-arms had sent a page running to find the Blackfish. He had arrived just as Edmure had jerked the training sword from Petyr’s loose grip, and before anything could happen had stepped in to interfere. He listened to the story from his Nephew’s point of view, mainly that Petyr was insulting him, then turned to Petyr who confirmed that yes, he did say such things to Edmure, and that no, he had no problems if Edmure wanted to vent on the training grounds. The Blackfish then got the whole story from the master-at-arms, who told him the whole story about how Edmure had started this whole debacle. Taking that information, the Blackfish had rounded on his nephew, and with an almost terrifying smile, told him that if he was so determined to fight Petyr he could, he then had his nephew sent off and put into armour, a thing he had neglected to put on before coming to make trouble for Petyr, and while Edmure was off he walked with Petyr over to the weapons rack.

“I hope I don’t need to explain to you the trouble you’ve brought upon yourself?”

“No Brynden, you don’t. However I have to admit there must be something in the water of that barrel as every time I drink from it, I wind up making a stupid decision in this training ground.”

His comment earned Petyr a snort of laughter, but the levity didn’t stop the serious expression on the Blackfish’s face from returning almost instantly.

“Either way, you are lucky that you let him insult you as he did. The little shit is a hot-head and every part as bad as his father was at his age, but if he hadn’t been the one to come close to breaking the guest rights, you would be in serious trouble. I don’t know how, but you always have had a way with pressing his buttons.”

“I know, that’s why I gave him every opportunity to get out of my way. Edmure came here looking for trouble, and I’m sorry, but I can’t just walk away from it now.”

“Do you take me for a fool Petyr? I know you can’t walk away, I just want you to keep in mind that there is a wedding in two days and that bruises heal better than broken bones. Just understand, whether you win or lose, if this fight doesn’t end cleanly no amount of dead Hands of the King will stop Hoster’s wrath.”

Petyr had no response to that instead he just went through the various training swords on the rack until he found one similar to the sword that had broken at Stoney Sept. As he picked it up and started to limber up his arms he caught the Blackfish’s eyes, he gave Petyr’s choice of weapon a look and let out a grunt of approval before moving away so that he could officiate the fight. It would be a training fight, first to start bleeding or be delivered a “killing” blow would be the loser, and as he got into position he noticed that whatever anger Edmure might have been feeling, he was still standing to fight as his trainers had taught him. Petyr also started to feel his feet go into their practiced positions balancing on the balls of his feet, and as he moved his own sword through a few quick motions he fixed his gaze on Edmure. When the Blackfish called them to begin, Petyr moved forwards before quickly darting to the side, Edmure had opened with a straight bull rush and at Petyr’s movements was forced to slow himself mid stride leaving him open for Petyr to strike him easily, but he stayed his training blade and instead spoke loudly.

“Not bad speed Edmure, but your footwork needs work or else you will be outflanked every time.”

Instead of responding, Edmure just brought himself to fully face Petyr and started to stride forward slowly. He kept his sword point low to the ground as he advanced, and Petyr in turn began to take steps backwards, but after five such steps backwards he suddenly burst forward and as soon as his footing allowed he pounced himself backwards again. Edmure’s sword came up in a strong two-handed stroke, but the momentum behind the swing pulled him off-balance as he tried to clumsily turn it into a forward chop after Petyr. His clumsiness allowed Petyr to lunge forward, and then around Edmure, again not striking at him with his practice blade.

“Your reflexes need work after all you cannot rely purely on strength and reach in a fight. Also you are letting your anger override your judgment, you should try to actually think.”

Again, there was no verbal response from Edmure, instead he prepared himself to attack again. He held his sword in a mid-guard position as he advanced, his movement was more cautious than earlier and he was trying to focus on Petyr’s movements as a whole.

‘There you go floopy fish, now you are learning and maybe, just maybe, I might be able to talk myself out of this one.’

Petyr matched the guard position and started to move in a circling motion, his steps being matched by Edmure. They circled each other as Petyr felt a smile coming across his face, if Edmure was thinking, it meant he had either calmed down or was now so angry that his fury had gone from red-hot to cold, either way, it meant that Petyr could claim that Edmure had asked for a lesson from an actual veteran of battles, and in doing so maybe save them both some face when Hoster or others decided to ask what the hell was going on. It might not get them both out of trouble, but it would probably be a damn sight better than looking like a pair of quarrelling schoolboys. There were witnesses, and there would be rumours, but if Petyr stuck to his story he hoped that his more comfortable lie would be bought easier than an uncomfortable truth. He was so lost in thought that he was almost thrown off balance when Edmure came forward again, rushing with his sword held low and forward. Petyr jinked to one side, but this time the young Trout didn’t take the bait and as his blow came forward Petyr had to parry it to the side.

“There you go Edmure. You really are a credit to your instructors.” With both of their blades holding against each other he was able to lean in closer, and when he did he spoke quieter.

“Now then, if you’ve calmed down a bit, we both need to say that this was a lesson you asked for, the alternative is that we both embarrass your Father.”

There was a look of recognition in Edmure’s eyes, as if for a moment he was recalling the punishments for previous such “embarrassments” and he replied in his own quiet voice.

“You have a point Littlefinger, but I’m still going to beat you.”

“I don’t care who wins Edmure, so long as Hoster can think this wasn’t us having a pissing contest, now, let’s make this a proper fight.”

With that Petyr broke contact and moved to the side, Edmure turned quickly to match him, and Petyr started to step backwards again as he accepted being on the defensive. He counted down from seven steps and stopped, Edmure didn’t try to lunge forward this time, and instead he sent a probing slash at Petyr’s left side. Petyr moved to dodge it, and as the follow-up swing came he ducked it and charged at Edmure. He got close before Edmure moved himself and in an overhead slash brought his sword down towards Petyr, but Petyr didn’t care as he leaped forward and crashed into Edmure. They both went down on the ground, but Petyr had the advantage of knowing it was coming, and quickly rolled himself away from Edmure and got back to his feet. Edmure was still standing up when Petyr brought the point of his sword down to where with a steel blade, a blow would have seriously ended the Tully family line.

“Edmure, OUT! Baelish, WINS!”

Came the voice of the Blackfish, and Petyr held his hand out to Edmure to help him up, as he helped him up he pulled himself close and whispered to the younger boy.

“Now Edmure, let’s be all smiles for the crowd. We can trade barbs, but let’s convince them all it was just a friendly lesson.”

In response Edmure moved away from Petyr and looked at him before he spoke loud enough for all to hear.

“Tackling me in a battle and then threatening me at my private parts Lord Baelish, that was not honourably done.”

“Ah, now I shall impart the most important lesson I have learnt to you Edmure. In battle, there is no such thing as honour, just the living and the dead.”

With that he held his sword up in a salute, and turned to the rack to put it away. He didn’t wait around or seek to speak with the Blackfish, who was now grilling his Nephew, instead he made his way to his room so he could strip out of his armour, he had to go shopping for wedding presents, and this debacle with Edmure had cost him valuable time.

*******

He was in the middle of changing into a simple shirt when a quiet cough announced that someone was standing in his doorway. He whirled around in a dignified and majestic manner, or at least he told himself that’s what it had been and not a half lurch across the room like a drunkard, and saw Lysa Tully standing in the doorway into his room. He felt frozen in place as he had been hoping to avoid running into her, but from her presence here, such an endeavour would have been pointless as she was apparently seeking him out. They stood there in silence for a moment until Lysa looked away from him and Petyr scrambled to pull the shirt down properly and stuff the end into his trousers, and thanked GRRM himself for making a world with trousers and not breeches. He started to pull on a doublet over his shirt when Lysa finally turned back to look at him.

“I see your wound has healed Petyr.” She spoke with a smile “And I must admit that I am very happy to see you again in Riverrun.”

“Thank you Lysa, and it was only the quality of my care that leaves me just with this scar as a reminder of my own mule-headedness. Is there something I can assist you with?”

“I was hoping we could take lunch in the Godswood? The weather is cleared up enough that the spot is quite warm and comfortable, we could catch up on everything that has happened while you were away and you can tell me how you convinced Father to lift your banishment.”

There was an almost eager look to Lysa’s face as she spoke, a familiar eager look and Petyr felt his stomach start to knot. He had hoped that their previous discussion would be enough to have put her off, but it appeared that he was mistaken. He tried to steel himself for his response, but she beat him to the punch.

“Oh, it will be nothing like our previous lunches. For one we wouldn’t be alone, Cat and her Stark would be there, as would Lord Reed and Uncle Brynden. With Father laid up in bed, Uncle Brynden is having to pull duty as the host of Riverrun, which means myself and Cat are having to pitch in.”

As quickly as she spoke, Petyr felt the tension in his stomach leave, if they were going to be in company the chances were that she wouldn’t be trying to re-ignite any sort of relationship between the two of them, and Petyr had to admit, the offer did sound tempting. A nice lunch with friends in a comfortable setting would be nice, but alas that was not an option.

“As great as that sounds Lysa, I’m afraid I can’t. I have business out in the camp that I have to attend to, if you wish to catch up though, I would be delighted if you would accompany me as far as the stables.”

Lysa looked disappointed, and he heard her let out a slight surprised “oh” sound, but she quickly recovered and gave him a smile.

“I understand, and I would be more than happy to accompany you to the stables.”

“Excellent, well I still need to get a few things put together here, so come into the room at least.”

He waved her over towards a simple stool that sat in a corner as he continued to finish getting dressed.

“So where did you get your new clothes Petyr? I don’t recognize them from your time here.”

“Ah, I bought them from a seamstress in the Northern Army on the way back here. She had them on hand when the previous owner was killed, and with a little bit of work they were altered to fit me perfectly. We haggled on the price of course, but eventually I got her to three stags.”

“Three stags? Such clothes look to be worth much more than such a low price, they are not court finery perhaps, but they seem sturdy.”

“It is only a low price if you can afford the three stags Lysa, and trust me, there are many that cannot. They had belonged to some third son of a minor Northern House, and what they lack in finery they make up in practicality, besides, my old clothes were getting to the point of being more patchwork than clothing.”

“I would imagine so Petyr, after all when you first arrived back here I all but had to look twice. You are taller than when you left, and where once your frame was lean it appears that you have gained some muscle to it, Edmure might still be taller than you, but not by much.”

As she said that, Petyr found himself recalling his earlier run in with Edmure and felt surprised that yes, where once he had met only Edmure’s chin, he had been close to looking him in the eye. Maybe it was something leftover from GRRM, maybe it was a growth spurt, or maybe it was the fresh air and rigours exercise, but he was definitely taller than when he first left Riverrun. He could do nothing but chuckle at the realization, and as he did he picked up his coin purse fastened it to his belt, that done he also girded his sword on. He turned to face Lysa and smiled at her.

“Am I missing anything?”

She crossed the room towards him, and started to fuss at a couple of places on his clothes and then looked at him. For a moment she was fine and then there were tears in her eyes as she planted her head against his chest.

“Lysa, what’s wrong?”

There was no response, so he placed one hand on her back and began to rub it in a circular pattern and patting on it occasionally. Honestly he didn’t know what the hell to do, and his reaction seemed like the best thing at the time, after she cried for a while she looked back up at him and smiled.

“I’m sorry Petyr, I thought, well, I thought that when you returned and Father had lifted your banishment that maybe it was because you had changed your mind. When I heard that you had done a great deed in the battle at Stoney Sept I thought that maybe Father had relented, that we could be together.”

She buried her head against his chest again, but it was only for a moment before she lifted it back to look at him again.

“But I know that is not the case, and it wasn’t until now, talking with you and seeing how much you had changed, that I realized that you _have_ changed, that you seem different and, well, better. I know that we can’t be together Petyr, but it wasn’t until know that I truly came to believe it. You aren’t the man I was in love with, you are more than he was now.”

She placed her head against his chest again, and Petyr stared off into the distance as he did his absolute best to not start breaking down himself. Lysa was more correct than she could ever know, he wasn’t the same man he had been, and outside Petyr doing something monumentally stupid, they would never be a couple. Even though he knew what he had done to her, what he could do to her, the realization that they wouldn’t be together still hit him hard. He wrapped his other arm around Lysa in an embrace, and the stood there for a moment until eventually she started to move away from him.

“I had better leave now Petyr, or else they will be worrying where I am at lunch. I hope your thing at the camp goes well, and it was great to see you again.”

She smiled at him and then wiped at her eyes with the hem of her sleeve before turning and leaving. Petyr felt very alone when she left, and it took him a few minutes to pull himself together again, but once he did, he went in search of a horse.

*******

The wedding was over. It had been a grand affair with Cat looking drop-dead gorgeous in the Sept as she was handed over to Ned by her Father. Hoster had been visibly leaning on her on the way up the aisle, and he sat down with a visible shudder of relief. Maester’s orders had been for him to stay in bed rest, but he had clearly defied such orders to make sure his daughter was married. Petyr had mostly tuned out the ceremony, it had held no real interest to him, and outside paying lip-service to the prayers he didn’t really give a crap for the Faith of the Seven. It was a powerful organization, but Petyr simply wasn’t a religious man, instead he had found himself praying that Mason would be waiting for him outside like he had been instructed.

Mason had indeed been waiting outside, and as the newly married couple and their entourage had started off towards the hall for the feast, Petyr had taken the item that Mason was waiting with from him.

“I trust Mason, that our “musicians” are in place?”

“Yes Lord Baelish. They are ready to go when you give the signal, I had to let them have a little hard cider to steady their nerves though.”

“So long as none of them are so drunk that they fail to perform. If that is the case I am taking it from your pay.”

Mason shuddered, but Petyr had delivered his threat with no heat to his words. He had earned twenty golden dragons and forty silver stags for Jon Connington’s armour, all paid for by the rich son of a Gulltown merchant that fancied himself a brave warrior. The price was inflated, but Petyr was able to argue that the quality of the plate was worth the extra. Of that, twenty silver stags had gone into paying his band of “musicians”, five had gone into buying new clothes from Ros, five had gone paying Mason for continuing to be his Baldrick, and the last of his silver had all been paid to an apprentice goldsmith that had wound up in the Manderly army. One of his dragons had been melted down, and now it sat on the end of a ladies golden chain reworked into a simple, but tasteful, medallion that showed the Tully house sigil on one side, and the Stark one on the other. It was his wedding present to Cat, and overall it had left him with nineteen Dragons and ten Stags to his name. That much money would be nothing to a proper Lord, or everything to a peasant, to Petyr it was simply his seed capital, and he needed it for the future.

He filed into the hall and found his place near the head of the room beside Howland easily enough. On Ned’s side at the head table sat Robert Baratheon, Jon Arryn and Roose Bolton, beside Cat sat Hoster, Lysa and Edmure. He had just missed the end of Hoster’s speech by the looks of things, and considering the man’s injuries and pained expression, it had probably been a rushed affair. Instead the food was brought out and Petyr helped himself to a decent serving of boar, roasted carrot like vegetables and fresh bread. He washed it down with watered down wine, he had no intention of touching the heavy stuff tonight, at least not yet anyway. The feast went on in polite conversation, with toasts being called to the new couple every now and again. Howland wasn’t in a particularly gregarious mood which suited Petyr fine, instead he had to put up with conversation from some noble he didn’t know or recognize for the meal. As the dessert courses were brought out, lemon and honey cakes, the giving of the gifts began.

It started with Hoster, who gave Ned an ornate dagger and Cat a fine fur lined cloak, and after that it started to spiral off. The newly married couple were handing off the gifts to servants as they were given, doubtless to be held somewhere for later inspection, and as the last of the gifts was given, Petyr stood up. He approached the head table until he was stood opposite both Ned and Cat, and looked at them both and smiled.

“Lord Eddard, Lady Catelyn, I am delighted to see you happily married today and would hope that my gifts to you both might serve as but a token of thanks and the good fortune I hope for you. I am a man of humble means, so I home the simplicity of my gifts does not offend you, know that they come from a heartfelt place.”

With that he offered the medallion to Cat, who took it with a smile that actually reached her eyes, something that hadn’t happened with all the gifts she had been given. He turned to face Ned and smiled, and then in a quiet voice spoke to him.

“I’m afraid that my gift is a bit of an unusual one, but I beg your indulgence while I get to it Ned.”

Ned just smiled at him and nodded, so Petyr made quickly made his way down the hall and stuck his head out to look at Mason and the twenty men he had gathered from the Northern Army. They were all from House Ironsmith, and all of them had been miners in the small iron mines that provided their Lord’s house with his name, and while the twenty warriors wouldn’t refer to themselves as musicians, they could sing with the best of them. They had earned their pay by learning the song that Petyr had taught them.

“Assembled Lords and Ladies” Petyr projected as he turned to face all the intrigued on lookers “I present to you the best singers that the North has to offer. I apologise about this intrusion on your feast, but as my gift to Lord Stark, they will perform an original song.”

With that Petyr turned to the men and nodded, there was the briefest moment of hesitation before the leader of the group started and the others followed.

_“Tongues of fire round Neck flaring,_

_News of foemen near declaring,_

_To heroic deeds of daring,_

_Call you, Winter’s men._

_Groans of wounded peasants dying,_

_Wails of wives and children flying,_

_For the distant succour crying,_

_Call you, Winter’s men._

_Shall the voice of wailing,_

_Now be unavailing,_

_You to rouse, who never yet_

_In battle's hour were failing?_

_This our answer, crowds down pouring,_

_Swift as t’arrows we’ll be pouring._

_Not in vain the voice imploring,_

_Calls on Winter’s men._

_Loud the martial pipes are sounding,_

_Every manly heart is bounding,_

_As our trusted Stark surrounding,_

_March we, Winter’s men._

_Short the sleep the foe is taking;_

_Ere the morrow's morn is breaking,_

_They shall have a rude awakening,_

_Roused by Winter’s men._

_Mothers, cease your weeping,_

_Calm may be your sleeping,_

_You and yours in safety now,_

_The Winter’s men are keeping._

_Ere the sun is high in heaven,_

_They you fear, by panic riven,_

_Shall, like frightened sheep, be driven,_

_Far, by Winter’s men.”_

As the last lines of Petyr’s repurposed “Men of Harlech” echoed through the hall, the line was met with cheers and roars from the various Northern members. The Greatjon bellowed at his impressive best that they sing again, and from an insistence from their Lord, the song was started over, this time joined by various other voices on the lines that were easily picked up. Petyr looked to Ned and saw him smiling widely, he looked at Petyr and Petyr gave him his best courtly bow while Ned tried to shout something that looked like “Thank you” over the roaring din. Petyr returned to his seat were Howland slapped him on the back and laughed as he pushed a mug of ale into his hands. Petyr drained it and smiled as the Hall continued in its merriment and revelry.

For the first time in what seemed like far too long, the world of Westeros seemed to be filled with joy.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

**Petyr XII**

“… _twas amongst the rivers and rills that they met. The rebel host from the northern shore, a force blooded and trained at battles almost as recent as a month. The loyalist host encamped on the southern shore, larger but mostly made of raw levees with the exception of the survivors of smaller clashes and of the Battle of the Bells. There would of course be actions that would follow it, some even more savage and brutal, but to the men there, and the ones that would survive, the Battle of the Trident would forever be an insight into the various hells all believe in, and among the mud, the fate of Westeros was decided, for a while at least._ ”

Chapter 15 “The Bloody Fork of Hell”,

“ _Notes on the Northern Campaign_ ” Lord Petyr Baelish.

Stoney Sept was a skirmish. At least that was what it appeared to Petyr, as compared to the sheer host of men, horses and material before him, the proud and organized troops and actions at what many were calling the “Battle of the Bells” were but a small thing. All along the river banks of the Trident, both sides North and South, the milling of men and creatures more resembled an overturned ant hill than any real groupings of soldiers as even the neater Northern camps, organized into a style that a Roman centurion could just about squint and recognize, if he had cataracts, were simply alive with movement. Today would be the day, the day when the forces of the rebellion met the forces still loyal to the Mad King. He hadn’t needed to see the banner across the river to know who was in command of the enemy forces, as even a casual fan such as himself knew that the loyalist army was commanded by Prince Rhaegar. He also knew that the rebels would win, Robert would kill him, and all and all a nasty fight were the rebels were fairly outnumbered would result in the breaking of the Targ’s backs.

Granted, if he had his estimates correct, well his subordinates estimates anyway, the rebel force wasn’t as outnumbered as he was expecting. 33,000 men, give or take, in the rebel forces against 35,000 under the dragon banner again, give or take. Two thousand extra men, if he was right, a sizable force capable of making this a pretty hard fight on ideal terrain, but this was not ideal terrain. The Trident was a marshy land that outside of a few strong stone beds, and shallow fords, was not a place that suited cavalry or heavy infantry, the mud alone had already cost a couple of horses belonging to skirmishers on both sides, and while the rebels hadn’t had time to truly fortify their positions, they were somewhat dug in, that alone would be enough to mitigate the loyalist advantage in numbers, but, as Jon Arryn had reiterated to Robert the night before, they could not discount the advantage that Rhaegar gave.

It was not that the Prince was a fantastic strategist, or grizzled veteran, but he was a capable man and he was a Prince, and in a feudal society that viewed people higher on the societal greasy poll as being of almost an entirely other species, that meant a lot. Not to the nobles who knew that their power and control was an illusion, or at least the smart ones that realised this, but to the ordinary man. After all, if the King is ordained by the Gods, and his children in turn were blessed by the Gods, what chance could a mere farmer from a nameless village with a stick have? Petyr knew damn well what chance they had, none if they were without discipline, none if they were without training, none if they weren’t certain of the fact that when the shit hit the fan, all men bleed the same. So the rebel army had drilled, and drilled, and drilled again, and with the drill had come an effort to instil in them the same sort of confidence and worship that the Prince enjoyed among his own men, stories were spread from campfire to campfire, speaking of Robert, the Storm King reborn, who wielded his war-hammer as if it were no heavier than a twig and summoned the angry thunder of the Gods with each blow. Stories of the “Old Falcon” Jon Arryn, advanced in his years maybe, but still sharper than valyrian steel and as steadfast as the mountains that were his home, and finally the tales of the “Bloody Wolf” were spread, of the quiet Eddard Stark, the man that when it came time for violence, would deliver it with extreme prejudice on all those that stood against them, that would bring his great vengeance for the treatment of his family to the very feet of the Mad King and make him see that Winter had Come for him.

Petyr felt a bit guilty making up stories to build up the legend of Ned, after all in the time he had known him, Ned had not simply been a good friend, but had evolved far beyond the character that Petyr had known. Petyr knew that Ned hated the stories about him, that oddly enough, much like wolves, he just wanted to be left alone to do his own thing and in turn wouldn’t bother anyone else, that he felt threatened by the reputation in a way, but the stories needed to be spread, morale needed to be maintained, and if thinking they had demi-gods of war on their side is what would help the rebels win the day, then that would have to do. He looked from his position atop a small hill towards the loyalist position and saw that the movement had picked up, even from where he stood he could hear the beginning of the trumpets calling the loyalists into battle, and for a brief moment he felt a desire to do nothing more than take his armed and armoured arse over to the lines and stand with the rest of the rebels against the oncoming force, to throw back these fools. But he wasn’t at the front lines, nor was he in the reserve lines, he was at the rear.

He didn’t know why Ned and Jon had been so insistent that he help to oversee the rear lines. Well, that was wrong, he did know, or at least suspected that both men were doing their level best to keep Petyr alive for different reasons, and when he had tried to corner Howland on the issue, the bog ninja had simply told him that he had done enough to earn glory. Petyr had responded he didn’t give a shit about glory, he was here to keep Ned alive, and anyone else he could. That response had been overheard by the Blackfish, and so Petyr was now indeed in a position to help anyone else he could, as he was in command of the various tents, carts, and people that passed for a field hospital among the armies of Westeros. Not that his assigned position meant much, he couldn’t order any of the Maesters, Septons or Silent Sisters to do anything, could merely advise them and help to facilitate them. He could technically attempt to order the various barbers, “doctors”, “nurses” and other myriad of people that, while lacking the chains or education of a Maester were still here to ply their trade, but that hadn’t achieved much as they simply ignored him when they could. Hell, he wasn’t even able to send his group of clerks out to collect materials and help with triage, as they had been assigned to the Northern reserves along with the other Manderly soldiers.

Truth be told he felt as useful as tits on a bull, but still, it was what he was assigned to do, and the rational part of him, the one that was normally in the driving seat, was relieved that at least he wouldn’t be killed to help the rebels achieve their victory.

***

He had fought in combat before, had had his life nearly ended due to split second decisions. He had thought that nothing could ever defeat that experience, not as a positive or negative one, but simply as a formative constant, something that could never leave him. Compared to the hell that he was in, he would take combat any day. Body parts littered the ground around him, the stench of blood long since over powered by the constant smell of decay, of rot, shit and bile and every type of fluid the human body could produce. Saws removed limbs, hot iron was used to sear wounds, filth ran rampant and even with his efforts, he knew that infection would likely follow many men. But as bad as that grotesque sight had been, it was nothing to what truly plagued him that day. The screaming.

He would never forget the screaming. It wasn’t simply a noise, it was a living creature that followed him no matter where he went. It assaulted him more comprehensively than any armed force, never ending or relenting, just constant and while the pitch varied, the words changed, the desperate prayers and curses that interspersed with it differed, it was constant. He had long ditched his sword and shrugged out of his mail, and while Petyr wasn’t a Maester or a Septon, he was still covered in the blood and gore that this little piece of hell could present him with. Night had fallen, and while the loyalists had been held back, the cost had been bloody and likely to happen again tomorrow. As the battle had raged on the wounded had been a trickle at most, the walking wounded that had been able to withdraw themselves or assisted to the rear, but with the battle over for the night, and the ambulances helping to load up the dead into the stiff uncomfortable carts, the true butchers work had begun. Petyr’s attempts at triage had long since collapsed under the weight of numbers, he himself was acting as little more than an orderly, and so far he had seen more dead and dying men than he ever wanted to see again.

The ones that died quickly, he had no sympathy for, after all they were beyond pain already, no, the place that would forever haunt him had been the room where, stacked nearly atop one another, those deemed beyond saving but not yet dead had to be taken. Their only company a clearly half-drunk man who attempted to quell their calls for their mother, or slipped them some little milk of the poppy to help them along. By the time he finally pulled himself away from his task, he was at the point of exhaustion and hadn’t eaten in hours. He couldn’t bring himself to eat, too many faces, too many injuries, too much blood, too much screaming, too much. He didn’t remember getting himself to his tent, but he recognized it as he stumbled into it, his mail and sword somehow in his trembling hands. He dumped them all in a corner and hit his bedroll like a ton of bricks, trying to use the quiet and the dark to control himself enough to stop the constant screaming in his mind. He didn’t sleep at all that night, or at least if he did it was fitful and without anything resembling any sort of rest.

Prayers, pleas, curses and more were offered up to any one of the deities of the two universes he had known, and at one point he simply muttered “fuck you” until his throat was sore, his target an older man in a seamen’s hat and an almost Santa clause like appearance. By the time the dawn broke, he felt more drained and distraught than he had ever in his life, and as he withdrew from his tent, and managed to drag himself to his observation post, he saw that the loyalists were still there, that they were already moving, and that today would be another day of hell.

***

The small amount of food he had managed to force himself to eat had long since left his stomach, along with a lot of bile, as the reality of the second day in among the hospital had hit him. Today the wounded came thick and fast, not the trickle that had started the day be fore’s action, and while Petyr shambled to his tasks, attempted to help all he could, he again felt totally useless, and slowly he began to feel numb as he stared at the faces of men that had followed their lords to their deaths. After all, it wouldn’t do for the noble worthies to be in the hospital, no, they would be with their own tents and entourage, being seen to by their own maesters. Even then some of them died, but Petyr didn’t care anymore, he knew what the outcome would be, and as he forced himself to help another screaming peasant levy be brought to the place that he would die, he wondered at the cost of it all. It was in the place that he thought of as “The Tomb” that he saw the sight that simply broke him.

Bran Mason, his chest caved in from a spear possibly, staring at the ceiling with the unfocused eyes of a man close to death. Beside him, Bran Farrier had already passed, that much was certain. Behind him, both Ned and Roose Fisher lay, one dead the other crying and soon to follow him. Petyr walked, looked, and forced himself to remember the faces of the men that had, until this battle, been the ones he had relied on more than anyone else in the camp, that had been the ones that had helped him make what he needed, to keep the place running, to manage to rise above his station in a lot of ways and really make a name for himself. Now they were as dead as the rest, no fancy maester to save them, no family crypt awaited them, just the mourning of their loved ones and a communal grave or pier. He had the decency to get out of the Tomb before he completely broke down crying, curled into a ball in some unseen place, the toll of the last two days overwhelming him now due to the proximity of the dead to him, of the loss of the men that he viewed as friends. But then he heard it, the cheering, the music, the sheer jubilation. He managed to ask the next cart of wounded what had happened, and he was told. The loyalists had broken, some units were pursuing them, doubtless in the hopes of doing to the baggage trail what always happened in medieval armies, but the bulk of the force was returning to the camp to celebrate, they had won.

***

Petyr was warmly welcomed into the area of tents that denoted the separation of the banner men of House Stark from the rest of the Northern forces, and after he had a mug of ale shoved into his hands he was all but pushed into Ned’s tent. There he saw his friend, clearly exhausted, but with a ghost of a smile and in a state of some undress. Howland was there as well, his trident over one shoulder and while Ned was clearly changing into different clothes, Howland showed no sign of doing the sign.

“Petyr! By the gods it is good that you are well.”

“You as well Ned, I never got to see you yesterday, and while I’ve been fairly busy I will admit I was worried. Not that I doubted Howland there wouldn’t do everything in his power to keep you alive, but Cat would have my hide if I let her husband die this quickly.”

Mention of Ned’s new wife actually caused the older man to blush a little, which was fine by Petyr as he reflexively suppressed the snapping anger that came through him at the thoughts of his former life’s crush.

“Be that as it may, you should have been there Petyr. I know” he spoke, raising his hand as Petyr started to open his mouth “that I was part of the reason why you weren’t there, as Cat would have my hide if I let you die. But it was glorious Petyr, the way the Dornish fought like demons, the way that Lyn Corbary broke through them with the rest of Heart’s Home’s men. An almost perfect battle in some sense, almost making the death and slaughter worth it.”

As Ned spoke those last words, the ghost of a smile disappeared and his face took on a sombre expression.

“Granted, it wasn’t perfect. Too many good men have died Petyr, too many injured. Hells I don’t even know if Robert will survive.”

Petyr felt his head snap around and he stared at Ned intently.

“Pardon?”

“Robert, Petyr. The injuries he got at Summerhall hadn’t fully healed up by the time we got here, they opened up again during the battle today and brought him low. He was alive when he got off the field, but gods he wasn’t looking great. But at least he managed to batter that son of a bitch Rhaegar before he had to be removed.”

‘Ok, don’t remember _this_ at all, but maybe it happened and wasn’t mentioned.’

“Well that’s something at least, with the Prince dead at least the loyalists will be leaderless for a while yet.”

It was then that both Ned and Howland gave him a curious expression, one that managed to combine confusion with inquisitiveness.

“Dead?” Ned spoke slowly “No, Rhaegar isn’t dead. The Blackfish has him under guard with some handpicked men. Injured yes, but hardly dead.”

Petyr felt like the world opened up under him and swallowed him whole then. If Rhaegar wasn’t dead, then what the fuck was going on here? Just what had changed? He didn’t have time to ask anything else, to vocalise his confusions, the exhaustion of the last two days coupled up with the shock that things weren’t going as he knew they would go was enough to knock him out. Simply one second he was looking at Ned, the next everything was black.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

**Various I**

The Maester was just finishing his examination of Petyr as Ned returned to his friends tent after getting changed, his face must have betrayed the worry he felt for his friend as the Maester looked at him and gave him an exhausted, but reassuring smile.

“It would appear that Lord Baelish just suffered from too much over-exertion and exhaustion my lord. While I can’t fully state it to be true, I would reckon that he simply worked too hard in the medical tents and didn’t sleep last night, and now his body has simply collapsed with relief from the news of our victory.”

“Well it is a relief to hear you say that Maester. I would feel ashamed to lose one more man than I have to, especially one that carried out his duty without once seeing the enemy.”

“Well some rest and he should be back to his normal self, and while Lord Baelish may not have seen the enemy my Lord,” the Maester’s eyes flashed with something that seemed like a mixture of regret and anger “he is almost as familiar with their handiwork as any man who laboured in those tents. Many men will owe their lives to his labours, not because he healed them, but because he made it so that we could.”

Ned didn’t know what to say in response to that, so instead he simply nodded gravely and allowed the Maester to return to his duties. He stood like that for a few moments, until finally the tension of the silence was starting to overtake him so he cleared his throat before he spoke again.

“As I said Maester, I’m glad to hear that. I’m afraid I must go now, but please send a messenger to me if Lord Baelish’s condition should turn.”

“I will my Lord” the Maester spoke without looking up from Petyr as he continued to prod at him. And with a quick glance at Petyr, Ned departed the tent, assured by the Maester’s words but now steeling himself for the meeting about to come.

***

“…and I say we should gut the bastard and send his head to the Red Keep on a spike!”

Robert’s voice boomed as he brought a hand down on the table that Robert, Ned, Jon Arryn and Brynden Tully sat around, and while his exclamation brought mutters of agreement from the other lords present, but not seated, Ned was more focused on the wince that went across Robert’s face as his energetic motion clearly upset the wounds that had not yet healed from Summerhill. Those wounds had already managed to undermine Robert a bit as he seemed to move just that little bit slower, just a bit more gingerly than Ned remembered him being, and if the descriptions of the battle were to be believed, those wounds were why they were in their current predicament.

“While such an action would be justified Robert, it is simply not in our best interests to execute Rhaegar. There is still the possibility that we could use him to force his father to give up his throne, to end this madness and indeed have him return all who have been taken from us back.”

Jon didn’t name Lyanna directly, but the quick glance he gave Ned as he spoke seemed to indicate exactly who he meant, and Ned nodded in agreement to what his mentor said.

“We don’t need to exchange him for that Jon” Robert spoke, less energetically than before but no less seriously “stick me in a room with him for five minutes and I’ll have him telling us everything we want to hear.”

There was a part of Ned that _really_ wanted to let his friend to that. Rhaegar had kidnapped his sister, led to the deaths of his father and brother, and was responsible for this whole damned war. Never mind letting Robert at him, he was tempted to let Roose Bolton spend some time with him, as if even half of the whispered rumours about the Lord of the Dreadfort were true, there would be no mortal man that could withhold information from him.

“I would advise against that my Lords.”

All the eyes around the table, and by extension the tent in general, turned towards the Blackfish as he spoke, and at Jon’s motion to continue, the commander of the Riverlands forces continued to speak.

“While myself and the men I’ve chosen have been guarding him, Rhaegar has exhibited some, _worrying_ characteristics” he spoke slowly as if picking his words with care.

“While at first I was willing to dismiss his actions and the things he said, when he spoke at all, as simply the behaviour of a man who was simply defeated and taken prisoner, I fear that this might not be the case. The things he says, the ways he acts, indeed the people he thinks he is talking to, all of it points to signs that would indicate that the Son seems to follow the Father in some regards, and I would worry as to what energetic questioning would do to him.”

The tent went silent as the Blackfish finished speaking. There wasn’t a man alive who didn’t know that the Mad King had been driven so by being held captive during the Defiance of Duskendale, there may have been signs of it before his imprisonment then, but it had been his time as a prisoner then that had truly driven him insane. What the Blackfish was stating was simply that if they attempted to use all means available to gain information from Rhaegar, they would be doing little more than repeating history in that respect.

‘And the Mad King would have no use for an equally Mad Prince.’ Ned thought sourly, and in the silence that had befallen the tent he turned to look at Jon Arryn.

It took a few moments before he spoke, but when he did Jon held the gaze of Robert as he spoke slowly and in a tone that brooked no argument.

“If that is the case, that is the case. We will retain Rhaegar as a prisoner, he will be treated as well as is expected by us under all the traditions that dictate the rules of war until such a time as he is either exchanged, or the cessation of this conflict. We will no more butcher him than we would Barristan Selmy.”

The Kingsguard member had been captured during the fighting as well, and while wounded was expected to make a full recovery in the fullness of time. He was also widely regarded as the most honourable man on the side of the Mad King, and the idea of simply executing him out of hand for whom he served no more appealed to Ned as letting Rhaegar live did, but if this was the way things were to be, he would accept it.

“Now though” Jon spoke clearly trying to shift the conversation to a different topic “I feel we need to discuss our next actions. King’s Landing lays before us, and while it may not be open and undefended, it is undeniable that our next action should be to make the preparations to advance and put it to siege. To this end I feel that it would be wise of us to act quickly. We can not hope to make a fast pace with the baggage of our wounded and supply trains, instead I would propose that a force made up of the strongest of our units, carrying light supplies to embed themselves, should make for King’s Landing as soon as possible. We do not need to send such a force to press the siege too heavily, but we will need to be in the correct positions when we bring up supplies, and that means acting now.”

There were general murmurs of agreement throughout the tent and Ned found himself nodding along with his wife’s Uncle, after all Jon was speaking sensibly, even if it did mean that Petyr would probably have a fit when he woke up and heard about what Jon was going to do to his supply trains.

“Very well Jon, I will lead an advance force and-” Robert began speaking but Jon turned to give him a look that Ned had seen on many occasions. It was Jon’s “Stop-being-an-idiot-Robert” look, and while normally it had only been done when Robert was either engaging in some prank, or misspoke, or was in his cups, this time it was as if those previous occasions had been merely preludes to the full force of it today. Ned could also see that Robert recognised the look, and judging from his friends rapidly darkening expression, he wasn’t particularly glad to see it.

“Robert, you and I are needed back here with the main force. Someone after all has to get everything together and be ready to march with the main force. This advanced force needs to be made up of the forces that move the quickest, and have the most experience at taking ground rapidly at a near forced march. Ned and his Northmen are our best bet to do this, and surely you won’t object to Ned taking the positions ahead of us in preparation?”

Jon spoke levelly, but firmly, and while he pitched his voice in such a way as to imply that he was making a suggestion, Ned could practically see the steel statement that it truly was. He feared that Robert still might not react well to this, but after a few tense moments he seemed to let out a deep breath, with a wince, and turn to face Ned.

“Fair is fair I suppose. If you are the best man for the job Ned, then I can hardly begrudge you. Although do me a favour please?”

“Yes Robert?”

“If you should happen to somehow take the city and that mad bastard, make him _suffer_ Ned. Make him fucking suffer.”

***

It was after the war council had disbanded, that Ned approached the tent that was guarded by a group of Tully armsmen. They didn’t react to him, except to glance between him and the man that had returned to his vigil by the tents entrance, and Ned approached that same man, vaguely aware that Howland was shadowing him.

“Ser Brynden.”

“Lord Eddard.”

The Blackfish didn’t rise from his stool, he simply nodded to Ned in acknowledgement, and then gave a shallower nod to Howland behind him.

“I’ll be honest Lord Eddard, I’ve been dreading this moment ever since I was put in charge of guarding yonder sack of shit” the Blackfish waved his right hand to indicate the ten “but to say I haven’t been expecting it would be a serious lie. If, and I do stress if, you are going to go in there, to do what I would do in your situation, then I’m afraid I will have to ask you to disarm yourself.”

At that the Blackfish stood up, subtly barring Ned’s entrance to the tent, but his hands were away from his weapons and he met Ned’s gaze without so much as blinking. It took Ned a few moments to take a deep breath and nod, and as he did he unbuckled his sword belt and removed Ice from its position on his back. He handed the sword, in its scabbard, out as he turned to Howland, and the other man took it, by the scabbard his hands nowhere near the hilt, and then held it across his chest. Ned then unbuckled the dagger from around his waist, and handed it to the Blackfish who nodded in satisfaction.

“Very well Lord Eddard. Please bear in mind what I said at the council though. A few taps are one thing, but please try and restrain yourself from completely pummelling the shithead.”

***

_“Whelp. At least this time I don’t have to worry about a bloody Epileptic fit from a rotating coin this time around.”_

_Petyr was standing in the middle of a dark void._

_Or at least he thought he was._

_Ok, maybe he was simply hallucinating or dreaming he was standing in a dark void, either way, there was a dark void and he was, arguably, present._

_“Although I have to say, the whole ‘dark void while unconscious’ thing is pretty bloody cliché. What’s next? A room with a fucked up décor where Tyrion Lannister starts talking backwards and telling me to check Burn’s suit?”_

_“A Simpson’s reference of Twin Peaks? Really? After everything else going on you reference a reference? Good gods you are so much easier to deal with when you are asleep.”_

_Petyr was slightly startled at hearing himself talk back, and as he turned, or whatever the metaphysical thingie he was doing that was like turning, to the source of the voice he was both surprised, and not surprised at all to see himself staring back at him._

_Well, a version of himself that had a goatee._

_“A goatee? Come on.”_

_The other him simply shrugged and spread his arms out before he spoke._

_“What can I say? I work with the material I’m given, and it is not my fault that we are such an unimaginative soul.”_

_“Uhuh. Let me guess. This is the part of this…whatever the fuck this is, where you, being what I assume is what’s left of Littlefinger along for this ride, tell me that I need to embrace the Dark Side and become more evil, or selfish, or whatever emotion speaks to the hormonal teenager that is angsty cause some red-head wouldn’t touch his dick?”_

_The other Petyr didn’t so much as blink at the retort, and instead simply looked down at his left wrist, where an impossibly anachronistic digital watch stood out among the more Westerosi clothing, while with his right hand he made a general ‘get on with it’ rolling hand gesture._

_“Oh, and now you are just going to ignore me because you know that I know how this conversation is going to pan out because you and I aren’t so different or whatever bullshit you are going to spew.”_

_The hand gesture picked up pace, and the other Petyr also started to tap a foot impatiently._

_“Ok, now this is just fucking rich. How long until I wake up from this shit and this dream gets itself over with?”_

_The other Petyr looked at him and smiled._

_“Oh come on, do you think I’d tell you that really?”_

_“No, but I figured it was worth a try. So, are you going to give me your evil genius speech or what?”_

_“Nope. I’m not going to monologue, I’m not going to give a speech, I’m just going to do what I exist to do, and that is give voice to those things that live in the back of our mind. So tell me “Lord Baelish” what the hell is going to happen next? I mean Rhaegar Targyrean has survived the Trident, even if the canon wasn’t totally off the rails before, you better believe it is careening off a cliff towards an orphanage of butterflies now. But let’s say that hasn’t totally fucked everything up, what is your next move?”_

_Petyr looked at his other self for a moment._

_“You know the answer, after all if you are a part of me, you would have to know the answer.”_

_“Humour me.”_

_“Christ I’m a prick. Fine. What happens next is that the Lannisters go pouring into King’s Landing, sack the shit out of it, and find that Jaime Lannister has gutted the Mad-King like a fish because he was going to go all flambé on the city. After that, there is some stuff, everyone crowns Robert, Ned goes to Dorne and the whole Tower of Joy shenanigans happen as well as a billion and one fan theories. Happy?”_

_“Nope. After that.”_

_“Well after that, Westeros stagnates, the Ironborn go nuts a few years down the line, roughly the same time that the irony fairy decides to replace the incest dynasty with a kid born from incest. Shit continues to stagnate, Robert gets fat, and then we get into the series proper. Which by my calculations ends with everyone getting frozen to death by the great evil slushies’ to the north.”_

_“Ayup. And what pray tell is our next move? Go back to the Drearfort and kick-start the Renaissance, Age of Enlightenment, Agricultural and Industrial revolutions on whatever seed money we manage to shake out of Jon Arryn in an attempt to make some ideas profitable? Please. This isn’t a story, this is a real fucking world, that isn’t going to cut it.”_

_“Oh, and I should just go all “Pimp to the rich and famous” while cooking the books and manipulating Westerosi economics in an attempt to get what I want? That is providing I don’t get caught by either Varys or Tywin doing that and get poisoned or beheaded.”_

_“Oh yes. Of course. Certainly. Definitely no middle ground here that you are too stubborn to see at all.” Other Petyr’s voice was veritably dripping with sarcasm, and Petyr realised just how annoying that must sound to someone else._

_“Oh I know there is a middle ground. That middle ground sees me married off to some political pawn, maybe working under Jon Arryn for the next fifteen to twenty years trying to scrape together enough resources and innovations to maybe stand a snowballs chance in hell of doing anything against the White Walkers while trying to put out the literal and metaphorical fires all across Westeros. That path leads to me trying to be a hero, and heroes don’t last here.”_

_Other Petyr looked at him, and then he laughed. He laughed so hard that he doubled over on himself and Petyr felt an overwhelming urge to punch himself._

_“Oh gods. Oh gods” Other Petyr said, his voice still choking from lack of breath “that is fucking hilarious. “Heroes don’t last here.” Seriously? That’s what you think? This is Westeros, Heroes and Villians don’t last here. Do you know why?”_

_“Of course I know why.” Petyr snapped back irritably, but when he opened his mouth to speak again, he found he couldn’t find the right words to say as the answer alluded him._

_Ok yes, there were no truly “heroic” characters in Game of Thrones. Ned was arguably the closest you got, but he still wound up dead because he was an idiot and trusted Littlefinger. Selmy Barristan was a close second, but he, for some reason, went unarmoured and forgot how to fight against a bunch of guerrilla soldiers armed with butter knives. Jon Snow kept on ignoring the signs around him, and got stabbed for his troubles, although that obviously wasn’t going to stick. Hell on the villain side of the coin, Tywin got killed for doing the stupid thing and not just having Tyrion executed as soon as possible. Jofferey got killed for being a walking talking idiot ball. And then there was…_

_Petyr stood there for a moment, running through a list of every single “heroic” and “villainous” character he could in his mind. And as he did, the Other Petyr started to whistle while he brought his left hand slowly down from above his head to towards his med section when he made a loud *plop* noise._

_“Ladies and Gentlemen. The penny has dropped. I repeat, the penny has dropped. Petyr Baelish has realised the blindingly obvious. Release the balloons and ticker-tape.”_

_Petyr felt the urge to punch himself rising again, an urge that was not helped when, for a brief moment, the darkness was replaced by a marching band going by playing “The Stars and Stripes” in full regalia. He did his best to recompose himself and looked at his “Other” self squarely in the too familiar eyes._

_“They died because they were idiots. Because they didn’t adapt. Because they stuck blindly to what they were, and died each and every time for it.”_

_“Eyup. Now tell me, me. What does that mean for us?”_

_“It means” Petyr said with a sigh of resignation “that this conversation is about to get a lot weirder than it already is, doesn’t it?”_

_“Well yes, but hopefully it means that we can get this armistice between us settled into something more akin to a compromise and not a ceasefire.”_

_“How do you mean? I’m clearly the one in the driving seat, mentally speaking anyway.”_

_“Only because I’ve been waiting for this conversation. Now, let’s be about it, starting with what should be our obvious first move…”_

***

Ned was exhausted by the time he got back to his tent. He had longer than he meant to in the company of Rhaegar Targyrean, but try as Ned might, the Prince had not given him any information on where Lyanna was. Oh sure, he had mentioned she was in a place of joy, but that had been between him claiming that she was fulfilling a prophecy and that they were lawfully married so she would be filled with his lawful seed. That had led to Ned punching him for the first time, and as he messaged the knuckles on his right hand, and let the other mad babblings of “clear water being muddied” and “small wings changing the winds”, play in his memory, he tried to count just how many times he had managed to hit the bastard.

He agreed with Jon on what use they had for him, but Robert had a point too, and if the Blackfish hadn’t hauled Ned out he would probably have k-

“Ned, you are back.”

Ned’s head came up as he saw Petyr sitting inside his tent. He rose as Ned entered, and he seemed to do so shakily.

“Aye Petyr, and I see you are back too. The Maester said it was probably just exhaustion.”

Ned moved over towards Petyr, and as he did Petyr flashed him a tired grin while Ned waved at him to sit back down.

“In fact Petyr, should you even be out of bed? I was planning on sending for you in the morning. I’m afraid the Northern contingent has to make a forced march to King’s Landing, and I was going to call on you for some help organizing it if you were up to it.”

“Well Ned. I’m afraid I can’t help you with that.”

Ned shot the younger man a glance, and as he did, he saw something in Petyr’s eyes. Something that seemed cautious and worried, but at the same time intense and focused as he met Ned’s gaze.

“Aye Petyr” he said softly, looking at that intensity “and why is that?”

“Well Ned, I need a favour from you. A couple I suppose, and the first one is that you trust me.”

Petyr then told Ned the other favours he needed, and as he spoke, the intensity only grew.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

  
**Various II**

  
The city was on edge, people everywhere where preparing for the worst ever since the news of the Rebel victory at the Trident. The returning soldiers, either wounded or ones who just had fled, had not done much to bolster the confidence of the populace, the whispered reports of the Mad King’s ravings helped even less. But still, even in the face of an imminent siege, life in King’s Landing went on. Traders came and went with goods, more of the latter than the former, smiths plied their trades on the Street of Steel, almost as busy as the whores on the Street of Silk, and here and there life continued as it had for nearly three centuries in the city. To Captain Janos Slynt, that was perfectly fine, as so long as goods came into the city, even in smaller amounts than before, he could continue to line his own pockets, and the prospect of a siege was proving quite beneficial in that regard, after all not a merchant blinked twice at his increased tolls, all hidden in the language of “raising funds for the city defence” of course, and Old man Stokeworth didn’t give a crap so long as he got his cut too. He was waving on a wagon of vegetables, mainly turnips and other root vegetables, when he was greeted with a rather unusual sight in the next wagon that came forward. Sitting in the passenger seat of the wagon was a man dressed in bright clothing, he had in his hands a lute and seemed young, but foreign as well, and his appearance made the farmer who was sharing the wagon with him appear even more drab and dull.

“Halt there. What is your business in King’s Landing?”

Janos pointed at the farmer, who in typical fashion grunted and shoved a thumb over one shoulder to indicate the wagon behind him. Janos moved slightly, adding a couple of pence to his charges for the farmers taciturn response, and saw the bags of flour and bundles of firewood that filled the bed of the wagon.

“By order of the crown, your goods will be checked for weapons” he turned to two of the other Goldcloaks nearby and jerked a hand towards the wagon “but I’m also curious as to what your business is in the city.”

He addressed his statement towards the brightly dressed man who stood on the bench of the wagon and sketched him an overly flowery bow. While he did Janos noticed the farmer roll his eyes at this.

“Why good ser, I am the great travelling bard Houdini” he spoke with an accent that most people would just call generally Essosi, but to Slynt’s more discerning ears sounded Pentoshi, “come to grace your city with my presence all the way from Pentos by way of the glorious events at the Trident.”

“Is that so? And what makes you think your presence, especially one detailing the events at the Trident, will be welcome?”

“Why good ser, I intend to share far and wide my latest ballad about the brave and dashing fight that Prince Rhaegar gloriously put against those dastardly rebels. Why I feel that such a song will be just what is needed to raise the spirits of your city. For if it does not, I shall myself take ship to Pentos on the next tide. Good Farmer Jon here was most gracious to give me transport to the city in return for some small change.”

“Uh huh.” Slynt responded outwardly, in his mind though he was putting a few pieces together. This Pentoshi bastard, whatever his actual musical talents, was trying to get home, but didn’t want to just come out and say it. Probably he had decided to see the world, gotten scared shitless, and was now running home to whatever cunt it was that had brought him into the world.

“No weapons captain, just flour and wood.” The words came to him and he fought to hide his disappointment. If there had been anything more than a belt knife on that wagon, he could have impounded it and sold it on himself for pure profit, and while the Pentoshi was going to pay a premium, the farmer was looking just as annoyed at him as Janos was feeling, and as such he didn’t feel like planting the evidence himself on this poor bastard.

“I understand then, well I’m going to need to record you both entering the city, and then we can discuss the tolls you will have to pay.”

Ten minutes later, and Janos Slynt was richer by way of a silver stag and two groats from the bard, whose pleasant demeanour had almost cracked as Slynt had pressed him hard, and three half groats and a penny from the farmer, who had managed a gruff “thank you” to Slynt for not skinning him alive. That done, he had waved the wagon on and turned his attention to the next wagon in the line, another farmer, this time with a wounded soldier in House Boggs colours.

***

‘Shit shit shit SHIT’ Bronn thought as he ran like the fucking wind down the alley leading off the Street of Sisters. He knew that if he took this alley, then a left, and another right, he could be back into the edge of Flea Bottom in no time, then getting away from the two Goldcloaks chasing him would be simple, but now though he had to move. He dared a quick glance over his shoulder as he approached his first turn, and he saw one of the Cloaks barely five feet behind him. He whipped his head back, gritted his teeth and put everything he could into running, he was not getting caught by a fucking Cloak now of all times, not when the city was on the edge of a bloody siege. As he moved though, he felt the fruit of his activities earlier in the day start to slip from his pocket, and while he quickly managed to tuck the stolen purse back in, he snarled at the prospect of losing the money even more. He needed that cash to pay “Auntie” Becca to stay in her flea ridden hole of a “home” in the depths of Flea Bottom if he wanted to have somewhere safe to stay during what was coming, and she didn’t do credit, and her sons were good at making sure no-one was dumb enough to ask for it twice.

He took the right towards Flea Bottom, and this alley was blessedly empty as he moved, and no lights were lit in the windows. He might yet get lucky in the dimming light of the evening and lose the bastards in this alley alone, but at the sound of footsteps behind him he kept moving, and then as he took the final corner between him and his home stretch, the fucking purse went flying from his pocket. For a moment, just a moment he debated trying to go for it instead of running, as the thing had felt heavy enough, but then he saw both of the Cloaks clear the corner behind him and knew he had to keep running, damn it all to the seven hells. He would have to come back here tomorrow to try and find it, if some other gutter rat hadn’t by then, or else he’d probably have to resort to a more direct approach to acquire his next money, and muggings always drew more attention than a simple purse snatching would, damn that fat merchant bastard noticing him as quickly as he did, another few seconds and the Cloaks would never have gotten this close. He was at the edge of Knapping Lane now though, and as he darted down it he was already running through the routes he could go in Flea Bottom now that would be safe. He was just thinking of whether cutting through the Knifers territory would be worth the risk when he heard a solid *whack* sound behind him followed by another and the cessation of the footfalls following him. He turned to see the two Goldcloaks down on the ground of the alley, with a pair of men both leaning over them.

“Nicely done Howland, now let’s get this pair stripped and stabbed and get the fuck out of here before anyone notice-” One of the men turned to look at Bronn and he felt the urge to run again as the other man, the glint of steel in his hands, also turned. Killing a Cloak was a hanging offence, if you were lucky, more often than not the Cloaks would deal out their own much slower and painful vengeance, and if this pair were willing to do it, they were either mad or even more dangerous than Becca’s Boys.

“You” the first man said after a moment, standing upright to look at him “you did a great job bringing these two to us, saved us a lot of time, so let me give you a piece of advice.” The man reached in under his own clothes and tossed something towards Bronn, he snatched it out of the air, and felt the jingle of coins in his hand, a lighter purse than the one he had lost, but still one nonetheless.

“You forget thousands of things everyday kid, make sure this is one of them.”

Bronn started to nod and began to turn away, he was smart enough to know when to take a bribe and get the fuck out. He spared one last look at the scene before him, the Goldcloaks being stripped naked and killed, and then took off again. He was hardly going to rush off to tell anyone what he had seen, but he did his best to memorize the scene well enough so that if the pair were caught he might be able to give a good enough testimony against them to earn a bit of money for his troubles. The only thing that bothered him about the whole exchange was why the man that had bribed him had called him a baby goat of all things?

***

It was ultimately a damned uncomfortable chair all things considered, and truth be told the fact that so many were willing to fight and die to get their hands on, it just showed what a bunch of raving morons they truly were. Even now, his father’s forces were ransacking the city around him, all because instead of listening to Varys for once, the Mad King had decided to heed the advice of that bloody fool Pycelle, and believe that his father was actually here to support him. He had hoped that the King would at least give him leave to seek terms with his father, after all if there was anyone that might be able to stop Tywin Lannister from slaughtering every man, woman and child in the Red Keep, it was himself, but instead the King had simply informed him to bring him his own father’s head as a sign of loyalty. That would have been bad enough, but then he had heard that he was in company with his pet Pyromancer Rossart, Jaime knew what that had meant, and knew what he had to do.

He had shed his white armour, he would not do this as a member of the Kingsguard, but as himself, and so he donned the golden armour he had been given so long ago, and began to make his way to where the Iron Throne, and the mad man that occupied it, were. On the way he came across Rossart in the style of a common man-at-arms, making his way towards a smaller gate in the hopes of leaving the Keep, and Jaime slew him swiftly, certain he was to go about the Mad King’s business of turning the city into his own funeral pyre. He then made his way to the throne room, feeling almost numb in his own mind as he went, and as he entered the Mad King started babbling at him almost at once. Screaming about how the city would burn, how Jaime was to bring him Tywin’s head, how Rhaegar had betrayed him along with all others, and then finally he had simply screamed as Jaime came closer, still covered in the blood of Rossart, and almost without thinking, had simply killed his king in cold blood.

The corpse of the King was still on the ground by his feet, he didn’t care, he had felt so exhausted from the ordeal that he had simply sat down on the nearest chair, the Iron Throne himself, and he waited for what he knew would come, either the Rebels or his Father, he cared not which at this point, he was just simply done. The sounds of footsteps on the floor grabbed his attention and he looked up, a pair of Goldcloaks, one with a spear the other a sword, were looking at him and the body of the King, and then back to him again. Jaime laughed at their obvious surprise and spoke.

“Best you should run men, the King is dead and the Rebels are liable to kill anyone in a Goldcloak by dawn. Try to surrender to the Northern host if you can, I doubt my father’s men are taking prisoners.”

There was a silence in the room for a moment after that, then one of the Goldcloaks, the slightly taller of the two, spoke up to him.

“Well Ser Jaime we would love nothing more than to be with the rest of our army, but right now we have a job to do and honestly the death of the King, whatever the means or reason why, has simplified it a bit.”

Jaime looked at the Goldcloak as he took off his helm and looked back at him, he was a young man, younger than Jaime certainly, but not by much.

“My name is Lord Petyr Baelish. My accomplice here” he gestured towards the other man “is Lord Howland Reed. We are here on orders of Eddard Stark, and honestly if you don’t mind, we would appreciate your assistance.”

Jaime just stared at the Goldcloak some more, and felt himself begin to laugh again. No little tittering giggle, but a full blown, gut-wrenching laugh as he felt that the world had gone even more well and truly mad, that perhaps King Aerys had simply been the only one to see it before.

“Of course” he managed to choke out among bouts of laughter “of course two Rebel nobles have infiltrated the Red Keep as Goldcloaks and want my help. I mean if the Gods themselves have gone mad why not this as well?”

Jaime laughed more, leaning further back in the Iron Throne, and as he watched the two men, he watched the one who had proclaimed himself Lord Baelish come closer to him. He kept his sword held low in a non-threatening position, but came on to him, almost ignoring the body of the dead king on the floor, and when he did he spoke in a tone that seemed for too solemn for such a younger man.

“Ser Jaime, the King is dead by your hand. For you to have done this, I would believe that it could only be for a grave reason, one that perhaps would have saved the lives of thousands of men, women and children.” Jaime stopped laughing then, and stared hard into the eyes of this man, did he know? How could he know? When he spoke again, Jaime found himself leaning forward to listen to the words more, a little bit further with each utterance.

“You are a knight of the Seven Kingdoms Ser Jaime, you swore an oath, an oath before all other oaths, to defend the defenceless. That oath is paramount to a true knight above all others, and I believe that for you to have disregarded your oaths to this Mad-King, it must have been to fulfil this oath, or some aspect of it. When this is all said and done, we can sit down, get good and drunk, and talk about exactly what it was, but until then Ser, I need you to fulfil your oath one more time. In this castle there is a mother and her children whose future probably seems very grim to her, a mother and her babes who can not hope to defend herself from any horrors that may come her way. We need you to help us to help her Ser Jaime, please, if nothing else, show myself and Lord Reed where Princess Elia and her children are. I swear to you on my own oath that we mean her no harm, only to defend her from the worst of what may come tonight.”

Jaime stared at this younger man, he was serious and genuine, he seemed to mean every single word he had spoken. If Eddard Stark, the bloody wolf of the North himself, had sent these two men to secure Princess Elia and her children as hostages, Jaime was very certain that they would do everything in their power to prevent harm from coming to them, but what were two men if a mob of unruly souls broke into the Red Keep itself? He had no desire to die, he no longer harboured any childish dreams of glory, not after years of serving the Mad King, but this young man did it seemed, and Jaime the Kingsguard would have scoffed at him, but that man no longer existed, he was simply Ser Jaime again now, and this man was right, he had a supreme oath to fulfil. He stood up from the Iron Throne.

“Very well, I pray to the Gods you know what you are doing, and if you betray that oath I will cut you down like dogs, but I will show you to Princess Elia.”

***

Scaling Maegor’s Holdfast was not exactly a pleasant experience, especially for armed men, but Amory Lorch and his men had done it. They were more lightly armoured than they would like, a consequence of scaling the castle walls, but he didn’t care, if anyone could make it past Gregor Clegane, armour or no armour, he would eat his own shield.

“Alright you lot, form up and get that bloody lantern over here.” He whispered loudly to his men, one of whom brought a shielded lantern over so that Amory could use the light to easily read the map of the castle he had been given by Lord Tywin. He scanned it for a few seconds and then turned to his men and Ser Gregor. “Right, this way.”

He led them on into the corridors of the Red Keep, Lord Tywin’s instructions to him and Gregor had been pretty clear. Kill the Dornish bitch, her children, and any other witnesses, then get the fuck out before anyone could properly pin what happened on him and his men, the sort of instructions they were used to from Tywin Lannister, and as such the sort of instructions they excelled at. It took them a few minutes, and another read of the map, before Amory was certain they were close to where they needed to be, so he instructed his men to draw their weapons, Gregor already had his beast of a sword drawn, and they came around the corner to face the door that was certain to contain their target. They started running towards the door, it was guarded by two men, and as they got closer to the door Amory got a good look at the two men, and almost tripped up over himself trying to slow down, and was collided into by the man behind him, he didn’t care as he felt a serious growing dread rising up inside him. Gregor was still charging and Amory practically screamed out to him.

“GREGOR, FUCKING STOP. IT’S TYWIN’S SON.”

The Mountain that Rides did not slow down easily, but at Amory’s screech he seemed to start to slow down, just before he could attack either of the two men. Amory jogged up to be beside him, as he stared between the golden clad Jaime Lannister and his giant companion. There had been only one other instruction they had been given, and it had been less an instruction and more of a promise, if anything happened to Jaime Lannister, especially anything that could be traced to them, Amory, Gregor, and their men would experience the worst pains that Tywin Lannister could possibly imagine, and so Amory started to do something he had not done in a very long time, he prayed, specifically he prayed that Gregor wouldn’t do anything stupid. Of course now their very simple instructions and plan got a lot more complicated.

“Ser Jaime” Amory began “so good to see you. We are here on instructions from your Father to, eh, secure the Princess and her whelps. So if you would just step aside we could get to that?”

It sounded straight enough to him, if he and his men could just get their hands on the bitch and her children, they could take them away, find somewhere where Ser Jaime wasn’t looking, and arrange an “accident” like them falling down some stairs or something. Not perfect, but it should work anyway, and if the “honourable Ser Jaime” would vouch for them, it wouldn’t matter about witnesses because it would clearly be an accident.

“No Ser Amory, I will not.”

There was steel in the voice of Ser Jaime, and as he spoke he drew his sword and Amory felt more than saw Gregor beside him prepare himself to fight as well. Gregor couldn’t fight Jaime, if he did, they would all be killed, and even someone like Gregor had to fucking know that.

“Ser Jaime, please, we are just here to do what we are instructed to do, we don’t want to have to hurt you but we will if we must.”

“And as I said Ser Amory, no. If it is my Father you fear, why go fetch him yourself, I’ll stay here while you do.”

Shit. Amory was not prepared for this, and if he did as Ser Jaime suggested it would, at best, result in Amory, Gregor and their men getting a quick death, if they were lucky.

“Enough talk blondie” Gregor rumbled as he stepped forward “we aren’t to kill you, but even Lord Tywin will forgive us if we knock you out co-”

Gregor didn’t get the chance to finish that sentence, as the other man whirled his strange looking spear in a lightning fast motion. Gregor and Amory had been so focused on Jaime they hadn’t noticed the other man slowly moving to Gregor’s flank, and as Gregor had moved and placed the other man in his blind spot, he had made his move, and he struck home quickly.

Gregor howled in a gurgled pain as he tried to turn towards the man that had just attacked him, but he was already moving backwards, rolling like a performer, leaving his spear at its place, a prong of it lodged in the side of Gregor’s neck. Gregor made a lurch towards him, but it was like a drunken man, and his steps forwards were unbalanced. A man tried to rush past Amory, but Amory threw himself into stopping him, every one of his instincts was screaming to him that if he let this turn into a fight, he would be dead one way or the other. It was then that Gregor took another step and tripped on his own feet, and came crashing to the ground on his side, breaking the spear that he had been stabbed with, and a black foamy blood coming from his mouth as his body convulsed like a dreaming dog. It was then that the other guardsman spoke, and when he did, it was with a thick Northern accent.

“The poison on that blade is one my people have used since before the days of Bran the Builder. It is fast acting, it is deadly, and it can halt even the largest swamp lizard in moments, never mind a man. All of my blades are coated in it, do not attempt to cross us again.”

With that the Northern man produced a short sword and a dagger, and held them and himself in a low guard as he stared at Amory directly. Ser Jaime was clearly as shocked as them all at the rapid and violent death of the Mountain, but he recovered quickly and stood beside the Northman, guarding the door. Amory didn’t like what he was about to do, but he did it anyway, it was the only way he might stay alive after all.

“Fall back men.”

“But Ser Amory-”

“I SAID FALL BACK DAMMIT.”

His men listened to his shout and began to move backwards away from their goal, the one that had been snatched from them.

  
***

  
Petyr heard the sound of something very heavy crashing into the ground and moved towards the door. He put an ear to it, which involved leaning over the furniture he had piled against it to attempt to bolster the simple bar that locked it, and just barely heard Howland’s voice.

“…never mind a man. All of my blades are coated in it, do not attempt to cross us again.”

It was followed by a voice he didn’t know telling his men to fall back, and Petyr let out a breath he didn’t realise he had been holding. This whole thing had been fucking suicidal, but somehow he seemed to have pulled it off, and as he looked over at the mother holding a babe and a toddler close to her, for the first time since he wound up in this crapsack world he felt true pride in himself. He didn’t know if what he had had over two weeks ago had simply been a regular fucked up dream, or a genuine conversation with the personality that made up “Littlefinger”, but either way he had woken from it with a plan. It was not a good plan by any stretch of the imagination, but it was his plan, and it had two advantages, firstly it was incredibly simple, secondly it was set up in a way so that in the event of failure at any stage, he should be able to still cut his losses and run. Saving Princess Elia was a huge part of that plan, but the real goal of the plan was currently guarding the door outside with Howland.

Jaime Lannister.

The man, the myth, the legend. Petyr needed to get to him, not to befriend him or make the Kingslayer owe him a debt, but so that when the dust settled, Petyr could defend him. He had gotten really lucky that his little pep talk over the corpse of the Mad-King had worked, otherwise he would have had to spill the beans to Jaime completely, and as it was he had come far closer than he would like, and any bean spilling to Jaime would certainly involve said bean spilling to Howland, and from there to Ned, and everyone bloody else in the Seven Kingdoms, which would get him killed. But now Jaime could, even more rightfully, claim that he was doing the work of the side of good, having murdered the fire crazy King and defended a defenceless noblewoman and her children, and that made for a very valuable bargaining chip with Tywin Lannister, as this meant that the reputation of House Lannister might just rise, and the heir of House Lannister would be seen as a more noble man. That would require someone to speak on Jaime’s behalf of course, which Petyr could naturally do, calling upon Howland to corroborate. From there Petyr could, with admittedly a bit of work, probably push for Jaime to be honourably discharged from the Kingsguard, which would mean he would be heir to Casterly Rock again, and if Petyr could convince Tywin Lannister that he did it for entirely selfish “I did it for the money” reasons and not for “Your children will bone and produce the single greatest threat to the stability of the realm” reasons, why he might just let Petyr live after disrupting his plans.

Of course to do all of this, he had needed to convince Ned to let him borrow Howland and undertake this mission in the first place, a task for which he had planned a big long speech, but his friend had simply agreed to his requests at once. Petyr had been stunned that Ned Stark would do such a thing, but as he thought about it more, he needn’t have been stunned, as it was the type of man that Ned Stark was, trusting to a fault. Convincing Howland had been more difficult, especially of the details of the plan, but the man had listened to Petyr and made one single request of his own. When this was done, he would get to ask Petyr a pair of questions that he couldn’t lie about. As ominous as that was, Petyr had agreed, after all one or the other might be dead by then, and Petyr had at least gotten Howland to agree that any answers from that conversation would be strictly confidential and-

“Lord Baelish?” he turned away from the door and his ruminations to look at Princess Elia as she spoke to him “Is everything alright outside?”

Petyr forced himself to smile, and project a non-threatening presence, as he had done since meeting the Princess some twenty thousand years ago, or minutes, it was hard to tell the difference right now.

“I believe so Your Highness, at least by the sounds of it Lord Reed and Ser Jaime are still alright.”

“That is good then.”

“Yes Your Highness, the two greatest warriors in all of Westeros are guarding that door. And if they should fall, I swear I will give my own meagre talents to defend you and your children as best I can.”

“And you believe Lord Stark and the other rebels will be coming soon?”

“Yes Your Highness, and you and your children will be treated honourably and kept in safety.”

“Doubtless to be used as bargaining pieces with my brother.”

He didn’t even bother trying to lie to the woman, she had far too sharp of an intelligence hiding behind those eyes for him to try, and from what of her life Howland had been able to fill him in on during their trip to King’s Landing, he knew that she would just see through him if he had.

“Most assuredly. After all with the Mad-King dead, your husband a prisoner, and the other members of House Targaryen fled, you are the perfect tool to get Dorne to leave the war, or possibly join the rebellion all together. That would just leave the Reach against the other six Kingdoms combined, and as rich and prosperous as they are, House Tyrell can’t hope for a second to win such a war. Essentially, you and your children’s safety will probably end this war months early.”

She just looked at him for a moment and then turned back to her daughter as Petyr moved across the room back to the simple stool he had placed in a corner next to his sword. He had the stool placed in such a location just in case someone tried to come through some sort of secret passage, as if there was one he was pretty sure it wouldn’t be in a corner, and while he was so hoping that Varys would just pop out of nowhere so that he could end that threat nice and easy, he wasn’t holding his breath. He remained like that for what felt like an eternity, watching over the small family that he had saved from an extremely brutal death until there was a rapping on the door. It was a distinct sound, as he had instructed Howland to use it in only one occasion, and as the last knock of “shave and a haircut” rang out across the room, Petyr began to move furniture, and then lift the door bar. He heard Princess Elia draw in a sharp breath behind him, and even though he knew he had only taught that knock to Howland, he still brought his sword with him just in case, but as he opened the door enough to see the other mans face, he knew it was unnecessary.

He opened the door fully, and looked beyond the more relaxed Howland to the form of twenty men in the attire of house Stark in the corridor beyond, led by Martyn Cassel who was looking wearily towards Jaime who still had his sword drawn and was clearly on edge.

“It is alright Ser Jaime, they are our men. Martyn Cassel there is as much a trusted servant of Lord Stark as any man could ask for.”

He nodded towards Martyn who returned the gesture before he himself spoke.

“Lord Baelish, Lord Reed, Ser Jaime, Lord Stark is in the Throne Room with Lord Lannister and requests your presence if you don’t mind. We will take over guarding the Princess and her children in the meantime.”

“You shall not” came the voice of the Princess in question over Petyr’s shoulders and he turned to look at her “at this moment in time, the lives of my children are of my utmost priority. That man” she pointed at the corpse of what had to be Gregor Clegane judging by the size of him “came during the night possibly to harm me and my children. Lord Reed, Lord Baelish and Ser Jaime defended me and my children, you on the other hand I do not know.”

“Your Highness, I swear to you that these men are here to protect you and your children as well. They will keep you safe, or die in the process.” Petyr spoke slowly and calmly as he looked her straight in the eye, he could understand her concern, but if anyone could be the opposite of Gregor Clegane in terms of character, it was Martyn Cassel.

“Are you certain Lord Petyr?” She spoke the question softly, using his first name for the first time since their introduction the night before.

“I am Your Highness. I trust them, so if you can’t trust them, trust me to trust them.”

It was a ham-fisted response, but it seemed to do the job as her eyes softened and she simply nodded. Petyr gave her a small smile and turned to Cassel and his men and gestured into the room. He had a different task to go take care of now, and he was not looking forward to it.

Although on the plus side, at least Bobbie B and Jon Arryn were with the rest of the army and wouldn’t be there to join in the grilling.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

**Petyr XIII**

He had so far in his time in Westeros met a lot of people whom he at least had a passing knowledge of from a totally different world. Ok, at the beginning it had been the same world, but at this point Petyr could practically feel the mad laughter of the butterfly effect as it just threw the script for the future out the window and started to make like a “Whose Line is it Anyway” episode on cocaine and improv like crazy. The important thing though, had been that no-one had looked like how he “knew” they were supposed to look. And then he got to Tywin Lannister, and the fact that his tired ass, now that the adrenaline was wearing off, didn’t yell “Jesus Christ you _are_ Charles Dance” was a credit to either his upbringings or his survival instincts, he wasn’t sure which. Although considering the involuntary gulp that the man’s mere presence caused Petyr to take, he was inclined to pick the latter. It was not that Tywin was a large man, he was simply a man that gave off a _presence_ and as the older man’s eyes instantly went to his son, Petyr started to have reservations over his whole “let’s stop Joffrey through near-suicidal means” plan.

“Father” Jaime spoke first as they entered the Throne Room, causing Ned to look up from where he had been investigating the corpse of the Mad-King “It is good to see you.”

“Jaime.” Was all that Tywin said, and while Jaime’s language had sounded almost wooden to Petyr, Tywin’s response had sounded as if he had just happened to run into his son in passing to somewhere more important. It was then that he turned his attention towards Howland and Petyr, and after staring at the pair of them for a solid five seconds each, turned to Ned before he spoke again.

“Lord Eddard, it would appear that your companions have arrived.”

“I see that Lord Tywin thank you. Howland, Petyr, it is good to see you are both well. What of Princess Elia and her children?”

“They are well Ned” Petyr spoke, deliberately avoiding looking in Tywin’s direction “a little shaken after the events during the night, but now they are under a firm guard, they should be able to rest a bit easier.”

“Yes” Tywin spoke now “it is indeed a good thing that they are well. Lord Stark was just informing me of the extent of his knowledge of your plans to secure the Princess and her children as hostages, but I must confess I am eager to hear the events from your perspective, especially Lord Baelish, as it was apparently your idea in the first place?”

Petyr had to think fast, Tywin was razor smart and would pick up on any bullshit Petyr tried to sell rather quickly. He was however also deeply prejudiced, so as long as Petyr managed to play into those prejudices, he should be able to satisfy the question. So he told the factual parts of the story leading up to the night before, how he came up with the scheme to secure the Princess and her children to make negotiations with Dorne easier, how he roped Howland and Ned into his scheme. How he used a borrowed cart, some supplies, a bit of creative carpentry and flashy clothes to smuggle himself and Howland past the Goldcloaks, as well as their weapons. He told both Tywin and Ned about the ambushing and killing two Goldcloaks to gain disguises to enter the Red Keep, and then how Howland and He had simply managed to slip in during the chaos and confusion of the Lannisters arrival, something he made sure to thank Tywin for doing as it made his plans a lot easier.

The Old Lion had quirked a solitary eyebrow at that thanks, but said nothing, so Petyr had then told them he managed to enlist Ser Jaime’s assistance in guarding the individuals overnight, which basically brought them to the present. When he was finished, Tywin’s face was giving away nothing while Ned’s face was filled with what looked like awe and pride, which honestly made Petyr feel downright chipper, cause fuck everything else, his friend was proud that his trust hadn’t been ill-founded. But the expression on Ned’s face didn’t last as he spoke slowly while turning to look at the Mad King’s corpse again.

“That begs the question though, what happened to the Mad King?”

Petyr had neglected to mention that his enlisting of Jaime’s help had happened over the Mad King’s corpse, well nearly over, corpse adjacent anyway, and Howland was staying as typically taciturn as he usually did. Truth be told, Petyr was willing to let the whole thing slide and keep mum on the matter, after all the blood on Jaime could be easily explained away or simply ignored, but then Jaime spoke up.

“I killed him My Lord.”

All heads turned to the gold clad knight, and while Tywin had so far received everything uttered with an expression of almost boredom, this caused him to actually look surprised. Ned’s expression had turned hard and flinty, and he looked towards Petyr and then back.

“You broke your oath as a Kingsguard?”

The question came out of Ned as an almost strangled whisper, as if the very idea of it was so alien to him that he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“Yes My Lord, I did. I could no longer stand by while that madman unleashed untold horrors and miseries on this bloody world. I killed him, and I would not hesitate to do so again.”

Tywin said nothing, but Ned’s expression was becoming more and more aghast. Petyr could all but see the “Kingslayer” version of Jaime forming directly in front of him, and he’d be fucked if he couldn’t nip that right in the bud.

“Why did you do it Ser Jaime?”

He knew the answer of course, but he also knew, at least sort of half remembered really, that nobody had actually bothered to ask him that question until Brienne and him wound up prisoners in Harrenhall. The sort of question that anyone with a brain would ask, and the sort of question that any sort of world-building would naturally bring up. It didn’t help though that Jaime now stared at him in confusion and not answering.

“You are an honourable man Ser Jaime, of that I myself have no doubt, but I dare say your Father and Lord Eddard have need to hear your reason for breaking your oath to the King?”

He looked at Ned and Tywin as he finished the question. Ned seemed to realise there was something more going on, or at least that was what Petyr hoped the dawning look of realisation on his friends face meant, Tywin however curtly nodded and spoke to his son.

“Yes we would Jaime. Whatever your reason my son, I would advise you share it now.”

The “advice” came out much more as a command, and while a brief flicker of anger went across Jaime’s face, he steadied himself as he looked between his father, Ned and Petyr as he spoke.

“The Mad King had ordered me to bring him your head, Father, as proof that I was no traitor to him. While I was returning here to have words with him, I became aware that he had given orders to his pet pyromancer to ignite caches of wildfire throughout the city. Maybe he was doing this to spite the Rebellion, maybe to create the largest pyre in history or maybe it was just his obsession and cruelty taken to its mad extremes, regardless, I knew what had to be done.”

As he spoke, the faces of Ned and Tywin both filled with horror, which to see on the face of Tywin Lannister was just strange, and after a few pregnant moments of silence it was Tywin that spoke, his voice a bare whisper, as if speaking to himself and unaware of his surroundings.

“He was mad, certainly, but there is no way that Aerys would be _that_ deranged, surely?”

“He would My Lord” Ned spoke, his own voice one of grim certainty “if the reports of how my brother and father were killed are even half true, such an action as this would not surprise me.”

“The reports probably are Lord Stark, what was done to them was a brutal action of a cruel man, and if there is any justice in this world he is suffering now the full rigours of the Seven Hells.”

Jaime spoke to Ned, and as he did he stared at the corpse with an expression of anger that Petyr would not have thought he could muster, and Petyr also noticed a sort of softening in Ned’s expression towards Jaime after that, which was _interesting_ he was sure. He didn’t know exactly why, but he had the distinct feeling that Jaime’s simple expression to Ned had probably done more to solidify his case for killing the Mad King justly than anything Petyr could say, still though, he would have to speak.

“That being the case My Lords” he said getting the attention of both Ned and Tywin quickly “it would seem to me that it is very likely that there are untold caches of wildfire currently hidden around the city that we should deal with promptly? Never mind the fact that there existence will prove that Ser Jaime acted promptly and honourably in his actions, but considering everything that has happened I would not wish to imagine the effects of one of them being detonated by accident?”

The colour actually drained from Ned’s face as Petyr spoke, and even Tywin seemed to go a bit pale.

“That is an excellent point Lord Petyr” Tywin spoke “I shall assign men to securing these caches at once, perhaps we could impress those Pyromancers who created the concoctions into disposing of it correctly?”

“Aye Lord Tywin” Ned spoke, his voice the sort of grim harshness that hinted at his life to come “I’ll have some of my men assist yours. If those Pyromancers attempt to disagree, we’ll give them an easier second choice, death or The Wall.”

***

Following the revelation of the possibility that King’s Landing could go up like a tinderbox any moment, especially after the first cache was discovered, there was an exodus from the city of Lords, soldiers, merchants and basically everything but the rats until the situation was handled. This meant that Petyr had the opportunity to secure himself from any possibility that Tywin might still be pissed at him by hiding in the heart of the Northern Camp. His tent and gear had been carried along with the army’s baggage train anyway, and he found it next to the tent that had been cleared and secured for Princess Elia and her children. By the time he had arrived at his tent, the Princess’s guard duty had been taken over by arms men from House Mormont with a very young Jorah Mormont in command. Petyr had been surprised the first time he had been introduced to young Jorah, but that surprise had gone away when young Jorah had wound up being Petyr’s assigned partner in practice, and proceeded to beat the shit out of Petyr again, and again, and again, although he did say Petyr was improving swiftly with the long sword. He shared a nod with the future Lord of Bear Island and then clambered into his own tent where he intended to catch up on all the sleep his body was now demanding it was owed.

Predictably, he got what felt like ten seconds before someone was shaking him gently awake.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, what now?” he asked, in a raspy angry voice, as he turned over in his bedroll to see Jaime staring at him. He was no longer in his golden armour, and while he did have a sword girded on to his belt, his hands were nowhere near it, and indeed he recoiled a bit from Petyr at his outburst at being woken. Luckily at this point the two awake and working brain cells that Petyr had started firing and he cleared his throat and spoke again.

“My apologies Ser Jaime, I’m not a very enthusiastic man when awoken at the best of times, and right now I was trying to catch up on the missing sleep from our incident last night.”

“I understand Lord Petyr, my sister is the same way sometimes, anyone waking her learns to do so at their own risk, even the Septa tended to leave her be.”

Jaime spoke with an awkward smile, and Petyr got the distinct feeling that he hadn’t come to wake Petyr up for small talk about what waking Cersei up was like, but at least Petyr managed to just barely prevent a fast response of a crude joke about morning afters with your own sister and turn it into a cough. That serious faux pas narrowly avoided due to his still sleepy brain, he managed to stand himself up in his tent and pick up his own sword belt and indicated towards the exit from his tent and followed Jaime out.

“Is it true” Jaime then spoke as they started to walk away from Petyr’s tent “that you killed Jon Connington?”

“Yes Ser Jaime, though it was more of a team effort between myself and Denys Arryn than any great fight. I got lucky and tackled him into a fountain at Stoney Sept after Denys had done most of the work.”

“But yet you carry Connington’s sword? I recognize it, even if you do have it in a more plain scabbard.”

“Denys felt that I should have gotten the spoils, I had his armour too until I sold it off, his old scabbard is somewhere in a stream between here and Riverrun, I tossed it as it was a bit too ostentatious for me, but a fine quality sword, now that I could use.”

The pair walked in silence towards the woods outside the Northern Camp in silence from then, and when Petyr was sure they were alone in the darkening evening light, he stopped and leaned against a tree.

“Alright then, this should be far enough, so Ser Jaime, why don’t you ask me the question?”

The other man looked surprised for a moment, but then he nodded, and after a moment of visibly preparing himself, he opened his mouth to speak.

“How did you know why I killed the King?” Jaime spoke softly, but his eyes were intense as he asked.

“I didn’t.” Petyr lied. “I just made one hell of a guess. Everyone and their brother talks about you being some honourable and perfect knight, and that means if you killed the king it was for one of two reasons: one, everyone is talking a load of bollocks, or two, the King must have done something truly horrible and terrifying. Considering the King’s obsession with Wildfire, I extrapolated that he must be getting ready to use it somehow, then I just thought of the most bat-shit insane usage _I’d_ have for it, and worked from there, though the truth was even worse than that. Then when I saw you and your father together, I knew it wasn’t that everyone was talking bollocks and this had been some long term plan by your father.”

Petyr then shrugged.

“Does that satisfy you Ser Jaime?”

Jaime just stared at him, his face aghast as Petyr simply faced him, still leaning back against a tree and meeting his eyes.

“You guessed all of that? From nothing but the nattering of gossip and a few observations about the Mad King?”

“Well as I said, the truth was worse than what I thought, I thought he was just panning to blow the Red Keep, not all of King’s Landing. But otherwise, yes.”

“Good gods, you are practically my Uncle Gerion, but even he wouldn’t risk all you did like that. For all you knew I could have been a trap set by my Father and you called me to defend the Princess and her children?”

“Yes I did Ser Jaime, and I do not regret it for an instant. It was a gamble, but I won, and if the consequences of that action are that a mother and her children live, and that you become known for acting honourably when all others would have stood back and done nothing, then those are consequences I can live with.”

Jaime just stared at him again, his face a mix of conflicting emotions, but finally he spoke slowly, and as he did, his own face slowly broke into a smile.

“Aye Lord Petyr, there are worse consequences than that. Although I hope you could help me with a matter, more so than you’ve already done.”

“If I can Ser Jaime, what is it?”

“I’d like to help guarding the Princess and her children. I know why there are Northern men guarding her, I am not blind to the world around me, but I would feel remiss if I couldn’t do just that. If it would make the Northern men feel better I’ll stay outside the tent, but please, I need _something_ to do that will get me away from my Father at the moment.”

Petyr didn’t know what _that_ was about, specifically why Jaime would want to stay away from his own Father at the moment, though Petyr could probably make a few dozen guesses.

“I’ll try Ser Jaime. I’ll talk to Lord Eddard when I get back to camp, if you come back in the morning you’ll know one way or the other.”

“I- thank you Lord Petyr” Jaime said, nodding to Petyr as he spoke “I’ll return to the Lannister camp then if you don’t mind?”

“Not at all Ser Jaime.”

With that Jaime turned from Petyr and walked off into the woods. At which point Petyr stopped leaning against the tree and stretched his body out. He was determined to get back to the Northern Camp and do what he had promised Jaime by talking to Ned, besides he didn’t fancy being alone in the woods right now as who knew what could happen to him.

“Well that went well Petyr.”

He jumped at the sudden voice behind and beside him, although even as he was turning to face it, he was chiding himself for not expecting it. He was looking at Howland Reed who was wearing his usual camouflage smock and carrying a new spear after his old one got broken killing the friggin Mountain.

“Thank you Howland? Although that was supposed to be a private conversation.”

“Oh I know, but you went off into the woods by yourself with Ser Jaime, in deteriorating light. I wanted to make certain you would walk back out from them again. After all, how else will I get my two answers?”

Petyr looked at his friend who, even though he was broadly smiling, looked terrifying as his eyes bored into Petyr. ‘Well come on, we knew he’d collect eventually now didn’t we? Let’s get this over with.’

“Ok Howland, ask away.”

He leaned back against the tree and folded his arms across his chest as he looked at the bog-ninja who nodded and stared right back.

“How did you know what would happen in the Red Keep and King’s Landing?”

A multitude of lies flittered across his mind at once, ranging from the mundane to the outlandish, but he had already promised he wouldn’t lie and bullshit the man, although that didn’t mean he couldn’t curate the truth a bit.

“I knew it because I have seen it before Howland.”

The other man simply stared, and as he did the spear he carried moved towards Petyr ever so slightly and suddenly he was reminded of what world he was in, and who exactly he was dealing with.

“Granted I saw it from Ser Jaime’s perspective, and heard stories from others including the brother of the Princess we just saved who died at the hands of the monster you killed, but still, my point stands. Happy?”

The spear moved slightly back as Howland nodded in satisfaction, and then after a long silent moment he spoke again.

“Why are you doing what you are doing then Petyr?”

“That’s your second question?” Petyr couldn’t help himself “Not “Who were you?” or “How do you mean you’ve seen it?” or anything else? Just how and my motivations?”

Howland’s eyes narrowed, but this time there was no movement of a spear, just a firm spoken response.

“Who you were is irrelevant, you _are_ Petyr Baelish, whoever he is. As for how you may have seen what you claim, there are stranger things in this world than a man that has seen things that may never come to pass. But _why_ you do what you do can tell me more than either of those two, so answer the question please.”

Petyr just stared at Howland for a long moment, and then he sighed and began to speak.

“Because I _have_ seen what happens Howland. I’ve seen Ned get his head chopped off by order of a bastard incest child. I’ve seen all seven kingdoms embroiled in a war that shows no sign of ending, just constantly killing. I’ve seen fucking dragons return, under the command of a very angry and pissed off member of House Targaryen, and all of that is the least important bits, because I’ve seen what lies beyond the Wall, what is coming, and just what it intends to do. So I’m doing my best to avoid all that shit as best I can, hell by simply being a different person I’ve changed _so_ much of it that I can’t even begin to list it all. I don’t know if this is going to change it all for the better, or for the worse, I just know it will fucking change it and at least then I might have a fucking chance to do something in this crapsack piece of shit world.”

He was speaking angrily and hurriedly by the end, and he felt the edge of tears in his eyes as what he had intended to be a reasoned response had instead turned into an angry rant, and who the fuck was Howland to make him say all this and think about it? He stared hard into Howland’s eyes, and after a moment the other man nodded and spoke, his voice soft and soothing.

“And that, Petyr Baelish, tells me all that I need to know. You _are_ a good person. One that knows that even with the world around him going to hell, he still has to try to do something, which means to me that I was right to trust my life in your hands. It is admirable that you are doing what you can to change what you have seen, although there are tales among my people of Greenseers who have tried that only to make things worse. Tell me though, you say that you have seen what is beyond the Wall?”

“Yes. The Winter King is real, as are the Others and White Walkers. I don’t know what they are doing now, everything I saw was from nearly twenty years from now, but they are coming.”

Howland nodded at that.

“It is as I feared then. I have had my own dreams, not Green Dreams but a few small ones, that would spell that such a thing is true. Although what the realm of Man can hope to do when so divided is beyond me.”

“Yeah Howland, that’s the sum of it really. Though so long as the Wall stands it should hold them out right? I never saw the Winter King with anything he could use to bring it down.”

Howland looked at him, some relief in his eyes.

“Well then that will buy us time I suppose when it comes to pass. For now we had best return to Camp, and I know I have used my two questions Petyr, but I would hope that if you feel the need to tell me more, you will not hesitate.”

“I’ll try Howland, though I assure you, we have a fair amount more shit to go through, and I’m not even sure it will all still go the way I think it will.”

***

It took four days to clear King’s Landing of all the Wildfire caches, at which point the rest of the Rebel Army had arrived, which meant that Ned, Jon Arryn, The Blackfish acting on his brother’s behalf, Tywin Lannister and Bobbie B were now getting around to the all-important business of deciding what the hell would happen next. News that the Ironborn had declared for the Rebellion reached them at around the sound time, which was nice as it meant that it was now solidly five kingdoms against two. Of the two remaining, Dorne was done as an effective fighting force after the Trident, which left the Reach under the command of House Tyrell which was busy besieging Storm’s End. Petyr would have loved to be a fly on the wall of that discussion, but unfortunately, he wasn’t. The discussion was happening in a closely guarded council room in the Red Keep, and no-one but the Lord’s Paramount, or their representatives, was permitted entrance. Instead Petyr was busy trying to catch up on the logistical situation with the Rebel Army and organize new supplies from what was left in King’s Landing after the sack, and while he had hoped that the non-Lannister armies might not have earned the ire of the people of King’s Landing, that hope had been dashed when soldiers from the North had killed some civilians after they had rioted and tried to murder the pyromancers that the Northmen had been escorting at the time.

There wasn’t really much left in the city truth be told, and while the Rebel army wasn’t in danger of starving anytime soon, he would have been a lot happier to avoid any risk of it happening at all by resupplying some short shelf live supplies to supplement the longer ones that he had in reserve. He had been chasing down a possible load of onions, when he was informed that he was almost a week late on that front as they had been bought and taken on a ship. He had put one and one together on that information, and offered up a small prayer that his actions so far in this world wouldn’t have changed the outcome for a certain smuggler on his current mission, and was on his way back to the Camp when the bells in the Baelor’s Sept started to peel out. He and the small escort he had started to make their way there, and as they did he had to force his way through the growing crowds as they got closer, until finally he was near the front of the crowd as the High Septon himself spoke aloud from a piece of parchment.

“-and being as it may that his familial line doth descend from that of Aegeon the Conqueror though his Grandmother, it is felt that the legitimacy of Robert Baratheon, both of blood and of action, means that he should be the one to take the Iron Throne forthwith. The lives of those that may otherwise lay claim to the throne, or their supporters, are guaranteed by royal decree so long as they will bend the knee to King Robert, or a suitable representative of the Crown, either at his coronation in one weeks’ time, or at a period afterword witnessed by men of noble and virtuous position. Thus is the decision of the Council of Lord’s Paramount, Long Live King Robert, first of his name.”

The crowd’s reaction was rather half-hearted at that, but they began to disperse already talking to each other, some already talking about ways to make money at the coronation. Petyr however guided himself and his borrowed guards towards the Red Keep, hoping to get a better idea of what had happened. When he met the Blackfish coming out of the Keep, he had simply called out to him and been waved in beside his old mentor and friend as the rode through the city.

“I trust you caught the announcement then Songbird?”

“Aye Blackfish I did. Robert to become King and anyone who bends the knee will be spared?”

“That’s the main part of it. Of course it isn’t nearly close to all of it, but it was felt that was the part the smallfolk needed to hear now.”

“Well then, what is the rest of it?”

“Well to start with, Robert is still betrothed to Lyanna Stark, if she still lives. Princess Elia and Ser Jaime have given Lord Eddard a general idea of where Prince Rhaegar might have stashed her as the Prince still isn’t talking. Hell we though Elia might have been able to talk some sense into him but that only made it worse. Speaking of the Princess, her and her children are to return to Dorne after the coronation. She is to swear on her children’s behalf an oath abandoning their claims to the Iron Throne, with themselves to repeat the same oath when they reach their majority. Rhaenys is to marry Robert’s first born son, Aegon is to either go through a matrilineal marriage to a minor Dornish house, or become a Maester. Any more information will have to wait until we are safely inside a private room though, the streets have ears.”

Petyr just rode in silence then alongside the Blackfish, the information he heard so far was, well, good he supposed. Elia at least was going to get to live, and the children were being sorted out in a way that didn’t involve them being murdered. The matrilineal marriage part was throwing him off, but maybe Elia had had something to do with that herself as while it would be seen as a suitable punishment here in the “North”, in Dorne it would probably just be viewed as a slap on the wrist. So long as the oaths were enough, everything would be fine, although that did leave the matter of Dragonstone and the two platinum blonde children there. Finally they arrived at the up-market Inn that Brynden had taken as his headquarters, and after a few exchanged pleasentries with the Tully armsmen who were guarding the place, Petyr and the Blackfish were left alone in a quiet backroom, both with a mug of ale.

“God’s that is little better than horse-piss” Brynden said as he sipped it “but at least it is cold. Now for the rest. To start with, there are a few concerned about Robert’s health. This is strictly between you and me Petyr, but he still doesn’t seem to have shaken the wounds he got before Stoney Sept, and while Grand Maester Pycelle has crawled out of whatever hole he was in and is now looking to heal our new King, it might be a bit touch and go. However this is why your life is about to get harder as a big chunk of the army, including the Lannisters, is going to be marching for Storm’s End tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Aye. Tywin wasn’t best pleased that my brother appears to have gotten all the good marriages already, and Robert is being firm about marrying Lyanna. Tywin has, after a lot of placating, accepted that he could marry his daughter off to Stannis Baratheon though. At best, he’s heir to the throne, at worse, he is Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. Why the hells are you smiling at that?”

“What? Oh nothing, just thinking it is funny that Cat and Lysa spoiled Tywin’s plans.” He said even though he was finding the pairing of Cersei and Stannis even funnier, even though the rest of the news was _worrying_ at best.

“Regardless, we have to go fetch him and give the Tyrell’s the opportunity to bend the knee to the new Hand of the King in proxy of Robert himself.”

“Let me guess, Tywin?”

“Got it in one Songbird. Anything else you want to know from me before you go get the same information from Stark or your own lord?”

“Yes, Dragonstone?”

“Oh gods Dragonstone. That was a bitch of an argument, eventually though Jon Arryn won out on that one. The defenders will be pardoned, and the former Queen and her children will be given the opportunity to bend the knee. Viserys is to go to the Citadel, and then to the wall like Aemon Targaryen, double removing his chance of carrying on the family through oaths given, the Wall bit was a suggestion from my Niece’s husband. The babe the Queen was with will either be married be granted Dragonstone in return for bending the knee and abdicating all claims to the throne if a boy, or married off to a Great House if a girl. Dragonstone itself will fall under the stewardship of the Crown, again if the Queen has had a boy, it will be his at his majority and after all the necessary oaths are given. If a girl, the Crown will appoint a steward to oversee it on their behalf while the ladies of House Targaryen remain guests of the Crown. All of this goes against Robert’s own views of “Storm the place and fucking take them”, but a simple solution doesn’t appear to exist in Tywin Lannister’s mind.”

Petyr just stared at the Blackfish, his mind racing, as the older man took a long pull from his mug.

“And now of course, I have to encode all this tripe, stick it to a raven, and send this all off to my brother. Gods but my work is never done. As for you Songbird, I’d say you might want to get going on preparing everything you need for the morning, you’ve probably got an even more busy week ahead of you.”

Petyr got up from the table they had been sitting at, but as he prepared to leave, Brynden spoke up once more.

“Oh, one more thing Petyr.” Petyr turned back to the man who was standing before him and beaming at him “What you did was fucking stupid, reckless and could have ended terribly for you. But by the Seven Petyr I am _proud_ of you. I’d advise you not to do something like that again of course, Cat is the one who is supposed to think that all the stories are real, and I thought you had a smart enough head on your shoulders. But I really am damn proud of you lad, and if that’s not enough, imagine Edmure’s face the next time you see him and rub _that_ in his nose.”

With that the Blackfish patted Petyr on the shoulder as he left the room, and Petyr found himself smiling as apparently, yes, the Blackfish being proud of him did make him quite happy. That happiness lasted all of three seconds once he left though, if he was going to Storm’s End tomorrow, that meant that events were moving along. That meant it was more than likely that after Storm’s End, Ned and his companions, which _would_ include him, would be going to the Tower of Joy. The place of speculation and wonderment to so many. The place where a lot could go wrong so fucking easily.

Bollocks.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

**Petyr XIV**

Storm’s End. The ancestral home of House Baratheon, allegedly built as the strong hold for a man that would declare war on the Gods themselves. There was no doubt about it, the fortress, and it was indeed a fortress and not some fairytale castle, was a seriously formidable structure.

‘Of course’ Petyr thought as the party consisting of Ned, Tywin, a bunch of other high and mighty nobles and his pitiful ass, rode towards the dipped banners that signified the Tyrell host ‘it is nothing that a half way decent artillery train couldn’t knock the seven hells out of if they were armed with cannons. Hell, give me a dozen sakers and I could have a hole in it for God’s sake.’

And that of course tipped onto the one recurring curiosity he had, that being the one almost anyone that knows history and starts digging into the world of Planetos tends to have, the subject of gunpowder. He simply hadn’t had the opportunity to actually try and make any yet, what with the whole “civil war” thing going on, but the minute he had a moments peace, that was third on the list of things he needed to get around to making, because at the very least he could imagine a few dozen ways that gunpowder could absolutely ruin the great evil popsicles plans. He knew how to make the stuff of course, what self-respecting history re-enactor didn’t, and considering his expertise in all things historical was more firmly in the age of gunpowder than the one he was quasi in, he knew damn well how to design a musket, and more importantly, how to use one efficiently. His ruminations on the topic of gunpowder came to an end as the figure that led the Tyrell host, and thus had to be Mace Tyrell, came close enough for Petyr to have a look at him.

He was, unsurprisingly, simply a younger version of the idiot that Petyr had seen in a world that had functioning indoor plumbing, item six on his list, and as the now technically not Rebels came to a halt and let Tywin and Ned move closer, Petyr could hear him speak aloud.

“My Lords Lannister and Stark, I great you on this wonderful morning. I have taken the liberty of having refreshments made up for yourselves and your retinues in my tent, nothing too heavy just a reasonably sized feast.”

Petyr sucked a breath in through his teeth. Ok, from what little he could remember the relieve of Storm’s End had been a cordial affair, but this was way too friggin cordial for the second last stop on what had been a HD tour of misery and destruction.

“Lord Tyrell” Tywin spoke after a moment “am I correct in assuming from the dipping of your banners and your cordial greeting that you are willing to bend the knee to King Robert?”

“I am indeed my Lord, though as I understand it, I am to bend it to you in his stead?”

“Yes. If we could get that out of the way first, I dare say that would help to speed things along a bit.”

There was a moment of hushed conversing between Mace and two other lords beside him, but after a moment, he turned back to Tywin.

“Would you have me do it here? Or can it wait until we are all dismounted and relaxed?”

“No time like the present Lord Mace” Tywin said, and Petyr was practically in awe of how the man managed to sound both bored and commanding at the same time “all you need to do is dismount, kneel, say the words, and we can get on with things.”

Petyr’s awe was knocked up a few more notches at the sheer brass balls on Tywin, as now he was basically demanding Mace embarrass himself, in front of Mace’s own vassals, and to do it in a nice public setting where there would be plenty of witnesses, while Mace was at the head of an army bigger than the rebel host. Petyr was half expecting that the day was about to get a lot bloodier, but then the Flower Lord, his face a flushed red, actually complied to what Tywin said and dismounted. He handed the reins of his horse to some servant, took a few steps to the side, and then knelt before Tywin and Ned.

“I Mace Tyrell” he began “Lord Paramount of the Reach, Lord of Highgarden and Defender of the Marches do swear, by the grace of the Gods, to pledge my allegiance to King Robert Baratheon, first of his name, of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. I will honour his laws, follow his commands, and never shall my doors be closed to him, lest I be found to be a base and wanton curr.”

That done, Mace stood back up and remounted his horse, at which point he returned to staring at Ned and Tywin.

“Now my lords” he said after a moment “if that oath be to your satisfaction can we please retire to lunch? You may of course fetch His Grace’s brother and bring him along now that we need not worry about killing each other anymore.”

***

The feast was borderline opulent, which considering it was being held from the stores of an army that had been in the field for over a year now, was either a display of such logistical skill as to put any quarter-master to shame, or a not-so subtle hint at the wealth of the Reach’s agriculture that even with a levy army deployed for over a year, Mace Tyrell and his lord’s were still eating this well. Petyr however wasn’t eating much, in fact he was eating very little as even without the looming prospect of what was going to happen on the morrow before him, a single guest at the feast had managed to quite put Petyr off his appetite, although the guest wasn’t to blame for it.

Stannis Baratheon. Lord of Dragonstone, rightful King of Westeros, Azor Ahai reborn, and all round the fucking Mannis.

Or at least he should be, instead he was a young man with a gaunt serious face that had clearly until this very meal suffered from the sort of starvation that kills. His hair was already starting to go balding, and while he was a guest, he was doing his absolute best to stay away from anyone at the feast that would seek to speak with him. He hadn’t done anymore than raise his goblet to his lips during Mace’s toast to him and the defenders of Storm’s End, and honestly when the fat flower had done that, Petyr was half expecting a homicide right then and there, and he would have been hard pressed to blame Stannis for doing it. He was clearly awkward at this party, and Petyr got the distinct empathic feeling that he probably would be awkward at any social gathering.

‘Hell if I didn’t have a collective seven years on him, I’d be awkward too.’ Petyr thought to himself. Stannis was technically older than Petyr Baelish, the physical entity, by a few months, but he was younger than Petyr Baelish the collective bundle of experiences, by seven years, and Petyr knew that those seven years in a different world were a big factor in why he was able to take a lot of the shit going on without going crazy, like this awkward as fuck meal. ‘Well Mannis, I’m sorry buddy but I’m about to make this somewhat more awkward for you.’

With that mental commiseration to the victim of Petyr’s attention out of the way, he made his way across the tent’s interior, not quite bulling through people but hardly while being the sort of social butterfly that could pull off something like this and make it look casual, and managed to plant himself at Stannis’s elbow.

“Lord Stannis” he said with a shallow bow “my name is Lord Petyr Baelish, I was wondering if I could just ask you something about your heroic action.”

Stannis’s expression turned a bit sour as well as stony, apparently his dislike of flowery praise had come from an early age then.

“What I did was my duty Lord Petyr. It was hardly heroic, simply what was required of me.”

“You held a siege against an enemy determined to starve you out. An enemy not even willing to give you the honourable possibility of surrendering after the formation of a siege. Call it duty if you wish” Petyr said, popping a grape into his mouth and chewing “but that is heroic. I read once that in Yi Ti they have an expression “Duty is as heavy as a mountain, death as light as a feather”. At any stage Lord Stannis you could have put down that mountain, and a lesser man would have. But that is enough plying you with honeyed words, instead I need to be a bit more blunt if you don’t mind.”

Stannis’s gaze had gotten intent after Petyr had repurposed that old line from the Wheel of Time, and something almost approaching a softening of his expression had happened when Petyr had admitted to giving up on beating around the bush, instead the other man simply nodded as if for Petyr to get on with it.

“During the execution of my duties in King’s Landing, I came to discover that a cargo of onions and salt fish had been purchased by a man locally known to be a smuggler. I have also heard rumours that your garrison received not three days ago a shipment of onions and salt fish, an impressive feat considering the naval blockade that was in place. Simply put, my Lord, I was wondering if that self-same smuggler was the source of your miraculous good fortune?”

“Yes. The man is named Davos, and he is a smuggler from Flea Bottom. I have promised him a knighthood and lands for his actions in bringing us such provisions, but he can not escape his past without punishment so I have him, his vessel, and his crew impounded in Storm’s End until I can exact a fitting punishment on him.”

“I see. Well my Lord the reason I asked is that I, and by extension Lord Stark, am in need of a vessel at short notice, one that can be capably handled and could make fast time from here to Dorne on the morning tide. As such I was hoping to beg of you that you loan me Ser Davos so that we might be able to achieve a very critical mission.”

Stannis looked at him for a moment, and then he spoke, his voice sounding strained.

“What mission would this be?”

“To retrieve Lord Stark’s sister, your brother’s betrothed, from the location that the Mad-Prince hid her away. Lord Stark, myself, and a few others in a small group were planning on taking by swift horses in the morning to begin our journey to Dorne, our destination is some small fortification north of Kingsgrave. But if we had access to a swift and true ship to take us, the travel time would be much less.”

Petyr probably shouldn’t have been giving this information away in such a public setting as this feast, but he did his best to keep his voice low as he told Stannis. If there was any man in Westeros that wouldn’t be out to screw Ned over for no reason over this mission, it was Stannis, and if there was any man that could help claw some more time to team Stark and maybe prevent the miserable existence Jon Snow would have, if the fans theories were correct anyway, it was Davos.

Stannis stared at Petyr for a long moment, and then there was an ever so slight grin to his face, which honestly creeped Petyr out only slightly less than any encounter with the Leech Lord did.

“Well Lord Petyr, it would seem that if I was to grant you such a request it would necessitate that I go and address Davos’s punishment promptly. I am of course loath to leave here right now, but if it must be done, it must. Would you be willing to accompany me?”

Petyr managed to keep his expression neutral, though he had to admit he was a little happy that he was offering Stannis the opportunity to get the hell out of the tent without losing any face.

“Certainly Lord Stannis, if you would lead the way? I can have a horse saddled for you.”

***

Davos’s ship was rather cramped as between the crew, the provisions, the fact this was a swift and small smuggler ship and not a vast sailship, and the eight armed men with their weapons and armour, deck space was at a premium. Luckily enough once the voyage got underway Petyr hoped that the rest of Ned’s companions would be comfortable stowing themselves away in the empty cargo hold. Petyr had no desire to not be on deck, he wasn’t a natural sailor but he found the sea air more agreeable to himself now that he lived in a world with literal open sewers. Besides, it gave him time to study his absolute favourite individual in all of Game of Thrones.

Ser Davos Seaworth.

To start with, Davos was one of the few men Petyr had yet met that was actually shorter than him, which was nice in the way that only a person conscious of their height can appreciate. His hair was a hell of a lot less grey, though it was still there in places as a sign of the hard life the man had lived. He looked just like Liam Cunningham, and to Petyr’s reality displaced Dubliner heart’s joy, sounded just like him too. Okay, his accent wasn’t exactly Dublinish, it was still to medieval in parts, but to Petyr it sounded as close to home as anything could be, and that just made him feel all warm and fuzzy. Right now Davos was barking out orders to get his black sailed ship underway, Petyr hadn’t caught the name of it, while he rested his right hand on the ships tiller with his left hand in a sling.

Stannis had still enacted his price from him, and he had still done it himself with Davos taking the removed finger joints and now wearing them in a small leather pouch around his neck. Petyr had been a witness to the whole affair, and if his lunch had been any heavier he likely would have lost it, as it was Stannis fainted when he was done. And as the small crew of the ship got to work, stowing provisions that had been lifted from the considerable amount of Tyrell provisions that Tywin had strong-armed Mace into surrendering to the garrison of Storm’s End as a gesture of good faith, Petyr went over the plan that he had explained to both Ned and Davos the night before again.

_“It is simple geography Ned” he said to his friend while Davos looked on silently “trying to ride overland to this location” Petyr stabbed a finger for emphasis “is the better part of three weeks under the best possible conditions, closer to a month and half in reality. And even with a letter from Mace saying who you are, to lend you aid, and to let you pass with no inconvenience, we are still looking at getting stopped at every turn by House Tyrell soldiers, probably being delayed even longer if they can’t read. By ship, the journey to Yronwood is what Ser Davos? A week? Two?”_

_“Less than two, but more than a week m’lords” Davos said consulting the chart that lay before them on a table showing the location of the Tower of Joy “we’d lose a bit of time fighting the winds east and south round Cape Wrath, but once we clear Estermont the current is on our side in the bay going westward towards Yronwood. Make it ten days if winds favourable, twelve if not. Two weeks if we are becalmed along the way.”_

_Ned stared at the smuggler for a moment, and Davos defaulted back to the ways of a commoner when being inspected by a Great Lord, but Petyr knew Ned well enough by now to know that not only was there no heat to his stare, but that Ned’s expression had taken on the one he tended to wear when confronted with a fact that ran contrary to his beliefs. Gods but he could be stubborn at times._

_“Once we get to Yronwood Ned” Petyr spoke again, drawing his attention back to him “we can just follow the river upstream to Kingsgrave, and from there it looks like maybe a three day ride to this place. Make it a week at most to get up the river and get there, three weeks to be right there, and that’s the worst case scenario.”_

_“Might even be quicker than that m’lords” Davos spoke quietly and almost flinched as Ned and Petyr turned attention to him “my ship can make it up that river easy enough, I can get you most of the way to Skyreach if not there itself. That should shave off at least two days for your journey on the ground.”_

_“See Ned. Plenty of time, it is the faster way.”_

_“Aye Petyr, it is. I just admit find it hard to take the words of a smuggler when my sisters life could be on the line.”_

_Davos shrunk back at that, and Petyr found himself rallying to Davos’s defence._

_“Hold the fuck on Ned” Petyr said, the heat to his voice actually surprising him and from Ned’s sudden reaction, it was surprising Ned as well “Davos may have been a smuggler, but that is behind him now, and I saw him receive the punishment for it that Lord Stannis and he felt was fair for his crimes. He is an honest man Ned, just one that needed to live outside the law to survive, and if you would prefer I ask Mace to get a bigger, clunkier, slower ship over here just so that your preconceptions of individuals may remain unchallenged, then you can just go take a running jump off the battlements. Ser Davos is our best bet by far, and if you won’t trust him, trust me.”_

_Ned looked at him, matching what was probably Petyr’s own glare with his own, but Ned’s heart wasn’t in it and he raised his hands._

_“Peace Petyr, peace. If you have faith in Ser Davos, then that will have to be enough for me, I hope Ser Davos you take no offence to my words?”_

_“No m’Lord, I was a smuggler, I will never have not been a smuggler in my past, but as Lord Petyr said, that is behind me now.”_

***

Davos’s estimate of ten days to reach Yronwood was almost correct, they lost about a half day due to a sudden squall blowing them off course, but Davos was a skilled navigator and even with Petyr pestering him with questions about all things naval to do with Westeros, he had managed to get them back on course with the ease of an experienced sea captain. He even got them halfway up the river to Skyreach before he started to have reservations about the boats ability to continue further upstream, so the party had disembarked, and Ned gave Davos instructions to make his way to Starfall and await them there. Which was a bit annoying to Petyr, as if Lyanna was in the marital way, then hauling her possibly heavily pregnant ass roughly half way across a mountain range seemed liked a dumb idea to him, as opposed to just making for the nearest castle and waiting for possibly Jon Snow to be born, and then moving, but Petyr had bigger fish to fry, and as they arrived at Skyreach, showed off the letter from Princess Elia to confirm the situation and ask them on behalf of House Martell to accommodate them in any way they could, Petyr found said fish.

“Ned” Petyr said as they were saddling up the next day and he led a mule on a rope beside an older woman “this is Alley. Alley, this is Lord Eddard Stark and companions. Alley has kindly volunteered to come with us.”

“Volunteered my arse my Lord, Lord Baelish has left a sizable pouch of silver with my children so that I might join this blooming fools quest.”

“Fine, I’ve paid her. Either way, she’s coming along Ned.”

Ned stared near open mouthed at Petyr, probably deciding if he was about to sprout a second head and wings, and so Petyr moved over closer and spoke quietly to him.

“Alley is a midwife, and a damned good one by all accounts. Now I don’t want to speculate on what the hell that cunt we left back in King’s Landing may have done to your sister after abducting her, but I think the chances that she could be of child against her will is are well worth considering. Alley is capable, lucky and by all accounts fucking discrete. Now if you want me to tell her to stay here, fine, but I think whatever headaches she may give us are somewhat outweighed by the possibility that she might mean the literal difference between life and death for your sister.”

After a moment Ned nodded and sighed.

“This is what I get for letting you be in charge of logistics isn’t it?”

“What can I say Ned, your brother failed to kill me and now I live to annoy House Stark with my sage advice. Now I assume otherwise we are prepared to go?”

“Aye. Lord Fowler gave me directions to this place as well, apparently it is named the Tower of Joy, but it shouldn’t be more than two days ride, even with Alley and her mule slowing us down.”

“Well Ned, we saved the better part of two weeks getting here, so we can spare two days.”

“I hope you are right Petyr.”

“So do I Ned, so do I.”

***

Eight riders made their way across the open field leading up to the Tower of Joy, and as they did, the three guardsmen outside made themselves ready for combat. They were members of the King’s Guard, sworn to protect the royal family and serve the King, but they had spent the entirety of the usurper’s war guarding this tower, but now it appeared that one way or another, that duty would have to come to an end. Seven horses and a mule rode up to before the fortification, and the riders dismounted, seven armed men and an older Dornish woman. Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard stepped forward, his flanks guarded by Arthur Dayne and Oswell Whent as he faced the man that could only be the son of Rickard Stark.

“Lord Eddard” Gerold spoke, keeping his sword pointed to the ground “I would advise you that you have no business here. Leave.”

Eddard unsheathed his own sword, the action mimicked by his six companions, but he kept it pointed to the ground before he spoke.

“Where is my sister Lord Commander?”

They stared at each other for a long moment, the tension mounting before the older Dornish woman simply stepped between the two groups. She had to be of at least fifty years, was short and rotund, but had an expression of sternness to her face that managed to brook no argument, even from the armed men she stood between.

“Far be it for me My Lords” she said, her usage of the titles dripping with sarcasm “to interrupt your cock-waving competition. But I was brought here under the pretence that there is a pregnant young woman to attend to, if this is not the case, fine, continue to destroy each other for all I care. But the curse of the Mother and the Crone upon any of you that stop me from my duty.”

She stared between the two groups then, continuing to appear not to move, eventually Gerold swore and stared back at her.

“The young lady is in the tower behind us. Go. You can’t be any worse than the bloody girl there already.”

With that the woman sniffed, loudly, and strode purposefully towards the steps leading up the tower, unwatched by either group of armed men as they returned to watching each other.

“So” Ned said after a moment “my sister is held hostage in that tower? I offer you this one chance, surrender your weapons now, and you may yet live to see the end of today.”

“No Lord Eddard. It is you who should leave if you wish to see the morrow.”

“I can no more abandon my sister than it appears you can your oaths.”

“Indeed.”

They returned to silently watching each other then, and then at some unseen and unheard signal, both groups moved rapidly towards each other.

The first to go down was Howland Reed, a slash across his chest causing him to fall to the ground in pain, as Arthur Dayne advanced. Theo Wull fell next, a sword through the chest from Gerold Hightower, but Gerold was not able to recover quickly enough to survive both Eddard and Martyn Cassel attacking him from either side of their dead companion, and as he parried Cassel’s sword, Ned drove his own sword through Hightower’s neck. Ethan Glover was next to die, a cut from Oswell Whent slicing open his throat, and while off balance an attempt was made by William Dustin to strike him down, but Whent recovered quickly, parried, and managed to send Dustin to the ground screaming as he clutched at his right forearm with his left hand. Whent attempted to move in to finish Dustin off, but Mark Ryswell, taking advantage of Whent focusing solely on Dustin for a moment managed to drive his own sword through the Kingsguard’s armour at the armpit. Ryswell’s victory was short lived as he was quickly impaled on Dawn by Arthur Dayne, who recovered and with the second sword in his off-hand managed to parry Cassel’s attempt to avenge his fallen comrade. Ned and Cassel tried to attack the Sword of the Morning from two different angles, but the twin swordsman just continued to meet and parry their attacks until, in a flourish he sliced and hamstrung Cassel. With Cassel lamed, Dayne rolled to avoid an attack by Ned, cutting him as he went, and positioned himself in a position to drive Dawn effortlessly through the back of Cassel’s head, leaving the fight down to just himself and Ned.

By now, Ned and Arthur were on opposite sides of where the fight had begun, Ned’s back towards the tower that held his sister, while Arthur Dayne’s back was towards the rocky outcrop the overlooked the clearing where the fight was taking place. And with the chaos of the fight now over, the two warriors were staring at each other and getting the measure of their opponent, trying to gauge them and think out their next moves, which in both cases meant standing still, an almost perverse contradiction to the still moving and now whimpering form of Dustin, both men focusing hard to ignore the injured one.

Which honestly suited the eighth member of Ned’s party perfectly, and so Petyr Baelish rose from the spot he had spent the last few minutes painstakingly getting to, after sneaking nearby with Howland’s help the night before, and with barely any effort, he brought the crossbow he held to bare on the back of Arthur Dayne and loosed it, his target being perfect. But while his target was perfect, his aim was off, and instead of killing Arthur Dayne with a centre mass shot as he had hoped, the bolt went high and to the right, embedding itself in the backside of Daynes shoulder, which caused him to scream in pain and drop Dawn from his right hand, he turned to look for who had shot him, and saw Petyr, standing as he was atop the outcrop.

“NED” Petyr roared as he tossed his crossbow aside and drew his sword “GET TO LYANNA.”

Ned looked at him, blood trickling from his arm where Dayne had already cut him. He didn’t say anything, but simply nodded to Petyr and turned towards the tower and started to make his way up the steps.

Arthur had by now fully turned to face Petyr, his face obscured by his helmet but Petyr could all but feel the anger that had to be lurking under it. That was good, Petyr could use the anger, and as Dayne started to stride towards him, Petyr started to smack-talk.

“Some fucking paragon of virtue you are” he said as Dayne came closer “how many times did you hold her down so Rhaegar could rape her? Once? Twice? A Dozen?”

“I did my duty.” Came the response from between what sounded like gritted teeth, the pace not slowing as he came closer.

“Like fuck you did. You failed your most fundamental duty to the oaths you swore as a knight. Jaime Lannister has more honour in his left ball than you ever dreamed you could you fucking coward.”

“Coward? Coming from one who hides with a crossbow that seems rich.”

Dayne was getting a lot closer now, and Petyr brought his sword into a guard position.

“Yes, coward. Too afraid to deal with the consequences, too afraid to say no, too afraid to do the decent fucking thing and stand up as a man instead of following like a dog. Now you get what your cowardice deserves, and I look forward to throwing that fancy sword of yours in the sea.”

“ENOUGH!” Roared Dayne as he rushed forward the last few steps in distance, and brought his normal off-hand sword to meet Petyrs, and so their fight began.

And in the brief clarity that Petyr had while engaging in the fight, he could see that it was no contest. Arthur Dayne was injured, had been fighting for longer, was fighting off-handed with a normal non-sort-of-but-not-really Valyrian steel sword, and was fighting up a slight incline with uneven ground.

Petyr was fresh, had been training nearly non-stop for over a year now and even longer before then, was healthy and had the high-ground.

Arthur Dayne however, was just that damn _good_.

Petyr found himself yielding ground, stepping back, putting absolutely everything he could into just desperately trying to hold off the man’s attacks, it was like a child trying to beat a grown man, and his body had tried and failed at that once before. He couldn’t even hope to counter-attack, focused as he was on his defence, and he cursed his own bloody pride for choosing to keep carrying Connington’s sword instead of just getting a shorter sword and a really big shield for this sort of fight. He stepped back again, his feet trying to find a higher ground than was there, and he fell backwards. He turned the backwards fall into a roll, and managed to get back on his feet and just avoid a slash that would have cut his head open like a melon. He tried to take that opportunity to hit Dayne on his wounded side, but Dayne was just too damn good and had recovered and swatted away Petyr’s attack almost contemptuously, and Petyr was vaguely aware that they were now on the plateau of the outcrop, he no longer had the high-ground and Dayne had a height and reach advantage on him. He was fucked.

‘Well fuck it, you knew you weren’t going to survive Westeros intact didn’t you?’

He thought to himself as he calmly started to accept his fate as Dayne advanced on him again. His attacks ringing louder and louder as Petyr moved backwards, but as he came Petyr saw something Dayne didn’t, and he did everything he could to avoid drawing Dayne’s attention to it, but try as he might to keep his calm, Petyr was distracted by what he saw, Howland “Ninja” Reed sneaking up behind Dayne with murder in his eyes. And that distraction was all the opening that Dayne needed, his slash came in fast and heavy, Petyr tried to raise his sword to parry it, but felt the steel in his hand barely brush against the sword that was coming, and then all he felt was a flash of brilliant white hot pain, same as when a forklift impaled him, same as when Brandon Stark had cut him open, and in a moment his vision went from normal to half red and half black.

Then it went all black.

And he felt nothing at all.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

**Ashara I**

Life had been so simple for her. She had grown up a loved daughter of her house, and while compared to the ways of some of the houses in the rest of Westeros Dorne was fairly relaxed on the expectations of their daughters, she was still being prepared to be married into a great house. Such aspirations on her behalf were part of why she had been the most trusted of Princess Elia's Ladies in Waiting, the veritable right hand for her dear friend in the court of King's Landing, and often the only one that the Princess could talk to and share her fears and secrets with. She had even been promised by her brother the right to choose who she would marry, and not simply have a marriage thrust upon her by politics. Her life had been going exactly as it should, and then Harrenhall had happened, and she had to see that bloody smile.

_Ashara knew that she was beautiful, even if her would be suitors tended to over embellish the details somewhat, and as the daughter of a noble house of the degree of House Dayne, she could easily marry any man of noble birth that she particularly wanted, and at Harrenhall she had been shown before the largest collection of eligible noblemen in her entire life. She had danced with Oberyn Martell, her mistresses brother was hardly a new acquaintance to her, and while he was flirty and passionate in his own ways, he was hardly what she sought in a husband. Barristan Selmy had been clumsy, nearly tripping over himself as he danced, which she actually found rather endearing that her presence could turn the older master swordsman into a boy only fresh of his majority, but he was a member of the King's Guard, and so could not marry, and even if he could, she doubted she could forget the inaction of those that wore the Whitecloak when it came to defending members of the Royal family from the King himself. Jon Connington was, as always, unfailingly polite and civil, and as usual a good dancer, but she was almost as certain as the griffon himself that his interests lay more in the direction of her mistresses husband than anyone else._

_There had been others, of course, but they had been so unforgettable that she didn't waste the time remembering them, young noblemen that wanted to dance with the young woman that was unattached and made their brains turn to mush, they were as common as cobblestones to her. But then she had met Brandon Stark, a veritable giant of a man who was the heir to the North, and he had simply spoken to her in a cheerful deep voice and told her that he wasn't interested in dancing with her. That had caught her attention, she had almost felt insulted, but then he had said to her that his younger brother Eddard had been watching her all night, but was frankly too cautious and pessimistic to ask her for a dance herself, and would she mind ignoring his younger brother's lack of courage and dancing with him._

_She had laughed at that and agreed, and so she had followed Brandon over to his younger brother, the one who she could see was staring at his older brother in a combination of awe and mortification. His brother had introduced her to him, given him a large wink, shoved him towards her and sat down with a laugh._

_"Your brother tells me you wish to dance Master Eddard?"_

_She asked with a smile, there was after all no need to hurt his feelings, but a bit of polite teasing wouldn't go amiss._

_Ned looked at her, his face still half filled with mortification, but then he did something she had only seen her brother do, he closed his eyes, seemed to center himself for a moment, and then he looked at her with a smile as he held out a hand to her._

_"Well if you would do me the honor Lady Ashara?"_

_The smile hit her like a battering ram. There was something about it, something so genuine and warm that she just couldn't resist. That damned smile._

It had been just over eleven and a half months since Harrenhall, eleven and a half months since she had seen Ned, eleven and a half months since his honest smile had done what many others had tried, and won him a place in her heart. Eleven and a half months since they had made plans to marry, as Ned's father had agreed, delighted at the choice of bride for his second son, and she had needed to return to King's Landing with the royal party to get her affairs in order. 

Eleven and a half months.

It may as well have been an eternity ago now for all that had changed. Rhaegar Targaryen had, at first, seduced Lyanna Stark and then disappeared with her. Not an unknown occurrence between a Prince and a Highborn lady, but when they had failed to reappear after what polite society would dictate as a "reasonable" amount of time, things had rapidly gone to the Seven Hells. It became clear to Ashara that Rhaegar had done what Rhaegar was want to do, and simply taken what he wanted with no thought of the consequences. She would have remained in King's Landing to help defend her mistress from the Mad Kings rages, but when Elia had figured out she was with child, and after Brandon Stark had been imprisoned with his companions in the Black Cells, exactly _whose_ child it was, she had ordered Ashara home to Starfall. But not without instructions. Ashara's brother had not returned with Rhaegar, and it didn't require the High Masester to figure out that meant it was highly likely that Arthur was guarding Lyanna wherever she was.

It didn't take too long from her returning home to discover Arthur's location, even if he hadn't been in Dorne itself, Arthur wasn't exactly difficult to pick out from a crowd, and she had begun to write letters to him, to try and reason with him, all the while telling Elia what she knew. But while he had written back, it was clear from the words and the tone that there was no reasoning with him, not for as long as he wore that bloody whitecloak. And then news of the war had begun to filter into Starfall, how both Starks had been executed in King's Landing. How houses Baratheon, Arryn and Stark were rising up in rebellion against the Mad King. How Robert Baratheon had managed to fight several battles to victory against superior numbers, before being forced back to Stoney Sept by Jon Connington. How the Riverlands had risen up, how her Ned had led the rebel army to destroy the Royal Army at Stoney Sept, and kill Jon Connington.

How at the Trident, Robert Baratheon had captured Rhaegar Targaryen, and then marched on King's Landing. How the Lannister forces had rebelled and captured King's Landing, and how the Mad King had been slain by Jaime Lannister, not a Kingsguard, but as a knight. She had feared that Elia and the children would have perished, but a letter from Elia had arrived telling her that she had survived by the intervention of three good men, and that in return, she had told Ned where Lyanna was. When Ashara read that, she had wept, for she knew that her love would have to face her brother, and that it was all her fault. And then she had gone into labour, an early one according to the midwife, and her daughter had been born, small and weak, and as the days dragged on and her daughter lived, the crying seemed to show that she was in pain, always in pain, and that pain was Ashara's fault, she knew it, everything was her fault now wasn't it? And then had come the day six days ago.

_She had not slept the night before, determined as she was to stay by her daughter's side at all times, she had only left her daughter in the nursemaid's care at the sound of the commotion, and had made her way to the courtyard before her brother as the small party entered it. There were eleven horses and a mule, and while riders dismounted from seven of the horses, she could see corpses were tied to the others. She moved closer, servants moving out of the way for her, and as she came closer she was more able to identify the riders._

_The first one she noticed was a heavily pregnant woman, who she quickly recognized as Lyanna Stark, she was being helped by an older Dornish woman that Ashara didn't know, but whose nonsense attitude she recognized at once as something not to be argued with. Her brother came beside her then, took one look at the Dornish woman and Lyanna Stark and turned to the nearest servant._

_"Get a bed ready for Lady Stark, now. Call the Maester and the Midwife, she needs assistance."_

_The servant took off at a sprint, her brother using his hardest voice, as he turned his attention back to where Ashara was staring. Ned had dismounted, and while he looked slightly worse for ware, he approached herself and her brother, his hands held up in a peaceful manner. Which was well, because the rope he held in his left hand was tied around Arthur, who was leaning on a small man that Ashara knew to be Howland Reed for support._

_"Lord Dayne" Ned said, his voice level but sounding so much older than Ashara remembered it "I realize that this is a somewhat unusual circumstance, but my sister needs medical attention, as do my companions. I ask this of you as your honor is without question, and as a gesture of my trust in you, I return your brother and family sword to you, though I and my companions were forced to capture both in combat."_

_Arthur looked terrible, but clearly alive even if his right arm was hanging limply, he also had what looked like a serious bruise around his neck, almost as if he had been hanged._

_"Lord Eddard" her brother said after a tense moment "I offer my home to you and your companions, and promise that no harm shall come to you for so long as you remain under it. I don't have bread and salt on hand right now, but I assume you'd rather we get aid for the others first?"_

_"Yes. Thank you."_

_With that there was a noticeable relaxing of a tension Ashara hadn't even felt growing, and Arthur was cut from his bonds while another one of Ned's companions, this one carrying awkwardly with his left hand alone, brought the two swords that Ashara knew to be Arthur's over to Ned who then handed them over to her brother as he barked more orders at the servants._

_It had been hectic then as the Maester was rushed off his feet appraising the wounds of the various members of Ned's party, as well as Arthur. She didn't follow him around, but did hear from the nursemaid later that the Maester had been impressed at how they had been dressed by both the Dornish midwife and Lord Reed, even if the methods had been a bit rough and fundamental. However she was aware of the Maester's activity as it was while he was trying to restitch the wound of Ned's final companion, that she managed to finally track down Ned, who had been avoiding her._

_"Ned" she had begun embracing him, and then quickly letting go as he winced "I'm sorry, but I'm so happy you are alive."_

_"Ashara" he had said, his voice filled with sorrow and as he looked at her she started to feel something wrong in the very pit of her stomach "I'm glad to see you, but I wish I didn't have to. There has been a serious change from the war..."_

She didn't remember the rest of what Ned had told her, it was simply too painful to recall correctly, but he had told her that he was now married to Catelyn Tully, that it had been necessary to win the war, and she had responded about their daughter, how she had been born premature and weak. She had tried to get Ned to see her, to at least hold the child he could now never acknowledge, but he had gotten called away then, that his sister was looking for him, and he had fled, and the world had collapsed under Ashara as her Ned, the man she had loved, had gone away. She had retired to her chambers then to cry, and had remained there for the last three days, refusing food, water, and even visits from Ned himself. Finally she had had enough, she could take it now longer, and now as the castle slept and the weather turned thunderous, she was walking up the steps of the Palestone Tower. It would be a quick action, a single step and then she would be in the waters below, and nothing would ever be her fault again.

She felt numb going up the steps, but at least her daughter would stop crying, her brother wouldn't know her betrayal, Ned would be free of the possible embarrassment of a bastard daughter, everything would be fine.

She reached the top of the tower, the door left open by a servant to encourage a draft probably. No matter, everything would be fine.

She took a few steps on slippered feet forwards, she'd need to step under or over the balcony, but no matter Everything would be f-

" _There is a house in New Orleans"_

She realized with a start she wasn't alone, looking around, she saw the figure sitting under the balcony, his legs dangling over the abyss, a bottle beside him, but if he noticed her, he didn't seem to react, instead he kept singing.

" _They call the Rising Sun,_

_And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy,_

_and God I know I'm one_ "

His head was slumped forwards as he sang, and he was definitely out of key, but the song was one Ashara had never heard before, so she simply stood in silence, watching.

" _My momma was a tailor,_

_She sewed my new blue jeans,_

_My daddy was a gambling man,_

_way down in New Orleans"_

The song sounded bitter and sad, and the voice of the man singing it, as strangely off as it was, suited it perfectly as she watched on. His hands moved in front of him, as he made noises with his mouth, which was odd, but before she could react he stopped, and sang again, softer.

" _So mother tell your children_

_Not to do what I have done,_

_Spend your lives in sin and misery,_

_in the House of the Rising Sun"_

His head then flew back as he sang louder

" _There is a house in New Orleans,_

_They call the Rising Sun,_

_And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy,_

_and God I know I'm one._ "

And at that silence fell for a moment, the singer just not moving as he just sat, his back arched back and his head lolled back with it, and then he moved and knocked over the bottle at his left elbow.

"Oh for fuck's sake man" he said, his speech slurring slightly "can't exactly see it out your fucking idiot peripheral vision anymore can you?"

His head turned and a distant flash of lightning, illuminated his face enough that Ashara could see the bandages over the left side of his face where the Maester had restitched the wound that had taken his eye. And as he turned his head the whole way round, his hands pawing for the bottle, he saw her, and for a moment Ashara prepared to flee.

"Oh bollocks" Petyr Baelish said as he focused on her with his one eye "please christ tell me you didn't hear all that?"

He was drunk, she could just step back, he'd probably forget she was there in a few minutes, she should just do that, then everything would be fine again.

"I did Lord Petyr" she said instead "I have no idea where New Orleans is, but otherwise the song was nice, though it might be improved if you weren't drunk."

"Well I suppose I am a fair bit ar meisce right now, and it could be worse, I could have been belting out Thin Lizzy." 

He smiled at that, as if proud of himself at some joke, but he picked up the bottle and took a swig from it and then held it out to her.

"Drink? Not exactly Blue Label, but it'll kill the thoughts for a little while at least."

She stared at him with the bottle held out, her mind trying to figure out half of what he was saying, but the prospect of her thoughts leaving her alone, well, that had been the whole point of why she was here wasn't it? She took the offered bottle and sipped it, the raw alcohol inside burning as she coughed from the unexpected taste, although the warmth that hit her stomach was pleasant.

"Yep, there ya go. Just need some lime and salt and you'll be laughing in no time. So tell me lady Ashaaa Ashala, Ashara?" He looked at her, and she nodded that he finally got her name right "Lady Ashara...fuck it I'm calling you Ash. So tell me Ash, fancy seeing a man die tonight?"

She stared at him as he said that, his face still a goofy grin that she could see in the dimmed light, before another bolt of lightning closer destroyed her night eyes again.

"Cause honestly, I've made such a fucking cock up of things that I might as well y'know? I mean I'm down an eye, the canon is fucked six ways to buggery, and when this is all done me and my half a vision are just going to have crawl into a pile of shit covered stones in the rain. I mean I may as well just slip down here and get it over with right?"

"I don't know what you are talking about Lord Petyr, but I think I can understand the desire to just die. At least then the grief and misery is over."

She didn't know why she was being so candid with him, maybe it was because she knew he wouldn't remember it in the morning, she had seen enough noblemen run off at the mouth while in their cups and not recall a thing the next day. What she was not expecting was his response.

"That's a load of bullshit for you Ash. You kill yourself, all your misery and grief just gets pushed onto your loved ones, all you would be doing is being selfish as fuck. Me though? I have nothing, so at least none will mourn me."

"Selfish? What's so selfish about it all stopping you drunken fuck" she snapped back, she was tired, she was hungry, and now this runt of a nobleman was stopping her from doing what she wanted "what is so selfish about doing what I want?"

"Well apart from that being the literal fucking definition of selfish, or at least it should be, it is, as I just said, pushing all of your misery and sadness onto your loved ones. No point in killing yourself, just live the best life you can and leave behind a good looking corpse. Gods know I'm not leaving behind one at this point, I've got more scars than fucking Capone, now if you'll excuse me."

He started to get up then, and while he was wobbling on his feet, he was clearly about to climb over the balcony.

"Wait" she said, she had come here to die, but not to see this, not to see someone else die, she tried to think of something to say, anything to say, but as she opened her mouth, lightning struck again, this time in the castle itself and from her vantage point she could see the stables starting to go up in flames.

She stood there, transfixed on the sudden new fire, and as she quickly glanced at Baelish, she could see him staring at it as well, he then swore and turned to look at her.

"Any chance you can help me down there? Don't know how much use I'll be, but fuck it, I have a horse in there and there is no way I'm making the climb back down by myself."

She moved towards him and helped him down the steps from the tower, the whole time he reeked of alcohol, but when they reached the bottom he slumped to the side of the door frame, and collapsed on the floor. She grabbed a servant going past, one of the ones on the way to the fire, and got them to help him to the quarters he had, as she herself began to move towards the fire, she would just have to jump off the tower another night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we reach the end of day 2 of posting the updates for this story.
> 
> Would like to say thank you for the notes and kudos I've received already, but it will be after chapter 40 that I'll start to address any comments, well, hopefully anyway. Still getting used to this website.


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

**Petyr XV**

Someone had decided to start banging a large bass drum just in-between Petyr’s ears as his eye opened slowly on the room he was in. The good news was, he was in a bed, the bad news was he couldn’t remember getting into said bed, nor really anything else from the night before after he bought the bottle of hard drink off one of the castle staff. The drink had a bite to it, and burnt like the hob of hell going down, but it had done the job and from what Petyr couldn’t remember, it meant that at least for a few hours he had gotten his collective thoughts, doubts and fears to piss off.

‘Of course’ he thought as he slowly and carefully managed to pry himself from his bed ‘that doesn’t exactly mean they are gone now does it?’

He moved his head slowly, each bit of motion making the drum between his ears beat louder, as he carefully looked around the room and saw what he was looking for, a basin of water. He made his way over gingerly, being hungover was bad, being hungover and still trying to get used to having only half your vision and you depth perception fucked six ways to Sunday because you are an idiot was much worse. He would have loved to clean out the taste of bile in his mouth with it, he knew better than to assume that all water was safe for drinking. Dunking your head in though to help wake you up and tackle a monster hangover though? That was a different matter, and so Petyr placed his head into the basin and let the cool feeling of the water completely embrace his head. He held his head there for what felt like an eternity, and only came up, gasping, when his lungs were all but burning from a lack of air.

‘Alright’ he thought as felt himself slowly slumping to the floor and leaning against the table that held the basin ‘we need to go and pretend to be a-o’fucking-k again. Maybe get some more desert water stuff, might try not to hit it as hard this time, and spend another day waiting for the Onion Knight to collect my sorry ass so I can go and rot amongst the grey grey stones of home. Yippee.’

Davos was taking his sweet fucking time getting here, and considering Petyr didn’t know how long it had taken to get to Starfall from the Tower of Joy, what with his being basically unconscious from pain most of the time, the fact that the Onion Knight wasn’t here yet was irritating him to no end.

Then again, everything was irritating Petyr these days. He couldn’t see anything on the left side of his body, what with the missing eye. An eye that he lost because he panicked. Howland was down, though Petyr now knew it was a bluff by the swamp ninja, and of the rest of them, William Dustin was down due to having received a serious wound to the right arm and hand, the other four were deader than disco, and that meant Ned was standing against Arthur “Bullshit OP fucker” Dayne alone. Which would have been fine if Petyr had been able to actually nail Dayne in the back of the chest like he had hoped, but instead all he had done was lame him, make him angry, and get his attention. And that was when the stupidity kicked in, he had told Ned to go check on Lyanna, when instead he should have just rushed the wounded knight with Ned and made short work of him. He then fought defensively, even though he had the advantage of the high ground, and ceded that high ground instead of digging in his heels. Then he’d allowed Howland to distract him, and that had cost him his eye.

‘You should have brought more men.’ His self-doubt whispered to him as he started to lay sideways on the flagstones of the chamber by the table. He agreed, he should have. But he couldn’t, Ned had picked those that had accompanied him himself, and even when Petyr tried to suggest more, the mere idea had been enough for Ned’s face to take on the expression of a wall. Hell, getting a midwife had meant a literal addition at the last minute to prevent Ned from saying no. That being the case, he should have gotten Howland and a couple of the more sneaky members of the group, Cassel and Glover would have been good, to join him in his sniping blind the night before and just have fired a volley early in the engagement, but at eight to three, he didn’t think the fight would go so badly, and even then from the vantage point of his oh-so fantastic position, they’d have probably hit Ned in such a volley instead of the Kingsguard. But he didn’t, and now they were mostly dead, he was missing an eye, and he was relying on the hospitality of the brother of the man who had taken his eye.

“This is totally a FUBAR situation.” he groaned aloud to himself, and instantly regretted the noise intrusion on himself, as the percussion section that was now in his head picked up again and he closed his eye in a pained wince. He knew he couldn’t stay here all day, but he needed a break right now or else he was just going to wind up killing himself, not that the idea didn’t have merit at the moment, after all it had ever since he had regained consciousness.

***

He eventually managed to drag himself out of his guestroom, after struggling somewhat to dress himself alone as he did not want a servant dressing him _ever_ , and staying as close to the walls of the corridors as he could, he arrived to what was easily the most quiet dining hall he had yet experienced in Starfall. Even the day that they had first arrived had been filled with more life and vitality, which considering the state of their arrival said something, but this morning the room just felt exhausted. He looked around for Ned, but couldn’t see him anywhere, ditto for Howland which didn’t surprise him, the smaller man had taken his duties to keep Ned safe even more seriously since the Tower. Outside of a few of the courtiers that resided in the castle, and lady Ashara sitting amongst them at the other end of the hall, the place was pretty empty. He took a seat near where a platter of boiled eggs and some fresh bread had been placed, and was just starting to crack the shell on the egg when he became aware of a presence on his left side. He had to turn his head to see who it was, and to his lack of a surprise it was Howland who didn’t waste anytime talking to him quietly.

“Glad to see you awake Petyr, Ned wants to see you now.”

“Do I have time to at least eat my breakfast?”

The swamp-ninja just stared at him, which was even more distressing than normal as Howland had eyes that just seemed slightly bigger than they should be sometimes, and Petyr just sighed and stood up from the table, putting the egg in his pocket as he did. He then followed Howland out of the hall and down a corridor, and as they walked Howland spoke to him again.

“Lady Ashara was staring at you. You didn’t do anything while you were in your cups last night did you?”

Petyr groaned audibly. Great, the last thing he needed was drunk him offering Lady Ashara offence, especially as such a thing could lead to him fighting Arthur again, and he was going to run out of eyes if he kept that up.

“If I did Howland” he said after a deep sigh “I don’t remember doing it. I’ll try and politely make an inquiry to see if I did later, and if so I’ll make recompense. Somehow.”

“You can’t do that from the bottom of a bottle.”

Petyr stopped mid-step and glared at Howland as best as he could, and as he spoke he felt his cheeks heating up with anger, because how dare he?

“I’m not some fucking town drunk y’know. I’m just trying to deal with the fact I’m missing a fucking eye.”

Howland turned to look at him, his own expression flat as he stared back at Petyr. He didn’t say anything, just stood near statue still staring at him, and as the tension and silence stretched out Petyr felt himself getting more and more frustrated. He wanted nothing more than to punch the condescending stare out of Howland’s face, but then Howland spoke.

“Yes. You are trying, very trying indeed. You got mortally wounded doing a good thing. Not some Southron tale of “noble action”, nor some religious preaching of right and wrong. When it came down to just your core of a human being, you acted in a way that shows at your heart who you are Petyr Baelish. You paid a price for it, only in tales for children do such prices not get paid, but you live. The only thing that can break a good man is himself, and after all you have done, all I have watched you do when no-one asked you too, I would be the most craven man in this world and the next if I do not try to stop you from destroying yourself. These are dark times, I _will_ keep such an ember of good glowing. I do not want to have to say this again.”

Petyr felt his anger drain away as he stared at the man that had become one of his closest friends in this world. The genuine emotions behind Howland’s words had been clear as day, and as they continued to sink in, Petyr felt tears welling up in his one good eye. He took a moment to compose himself, wiping the first tears from his eye with the back of a sleeve, he then looked up at Howland and smiled as best he could.

“Thank you, Howland. You don’t know how much I needed to hear that right now. Let’s not keep Ned waiting any more shall we?”

With that, Howland just nodded, and continued on, Petyr fell into step behind him and they made their journey to Ned in silence.

***

When they found Ned he was, unsurprisingly to Petyr, in Lyanna’s room. That was the end of the lack of surprises for him though, as when he entered after Howland, his eyes fell to Lyanna Stark, and more importantly to the bundle of blankets that was held in her arms that Ned was all but cooing over from beside her bed. Nearby Alley watched on, her face in the sort of smile that seemed totally at odds with her abrasive personality. But Petur wasn’t interested in her, instead again he couldn’t help but stare at the baby and think a very simple thought.

‘Oh. Fuck.’

That was the thought that entered Petyr’s mind as he stared while Ned turned at their presence and waved them over to where Petyr saw the door to Ned’s chamber open, and after going through he found the other living member of their party, aside from Alley, was sitting by a small table. Lord William Dustin sat with his right arm in a sling, he raised his left hand in acknowledgement to both Petyr and Howland as they took seats next to the table as well. He was a bigger man than Petyr, but while that wasn’t exactly uncommon, Petyr had started to realise a while back that puberty was apparently having a second swing at his growth as he _was_ getting taller, and he sported what was, honestly, a fantastic beard. He was also the oldest member of the group that had set out to rescue Lyanna, and apart from his bawdy tales about how much he was looking forward to returning to his wife, his next chief concern had been making sure that the red horse he had ridden south on was kept safe for his return. Petyr had also since learned he had been the one that had told Ned to bring the corpses of their fallen comrades to Starfall with them instead of burying them there. And while the bones of Ryswell, Cassel, Glover and Wull would be returning with them to the North, the bones of Hightower and Whent would probably find their rest here, or in the bottom of the bay if Petyr had any word in the matter. With nothing better to do, Petyr produced the egg from his pocket, it was still warm, and was beginning to peel it when Ned sat down at the table as well, his face tired but happy, and for some reason covered in ash.

“You still need to clean off the ash from the fire.” William said, his voice deceptively high-pitched for such a big man.

“There was a fire?” Petyr blurted out while Ned rose and crossed over to a water basin.

“Aye Lord Petyr. The stables got hit by lightning during the storm last night, bloody things went up like a tinder box, but the animals got out due to a stable hand acting quick. We were fighting it with a bucket chain when Ned got word that Lyanna was delivering his nephew.”

“It’s a boy then Ned? Everything went well with the delivery?” Petyr asked, somewhat faster than he meant to as he wanted to change the topic before he might be asked why he hadn’t been out helping to fight the fire.

“Aye Petyr” Ned said as he took his seat again “Alley helped walk Lyanna through it, the lad was a bit early, but not so much as to draw concern. The other midwife and the Maester tried to but in, but honestly Alley had none of it and she says that the delivery went as clean as could be hoped.”

Petyr didn’t doubt for a moment that the fifty-something year old midwife wouldn’t have let anyone else try to tell her about her business, he honestly liked her a lot as she reminded him a lot of his Uncle’s second wife from New Zealand, a no nonsense woman with a wicked sense of humour. And from the inquires he had made before he had bought up her services, he also knew that Lyanna had been in some damn good hands. A capable midwife was something that was well-respected in Westerosi society, one with Alley’s record was above and beyond that.

“She also reckons he will make his first three naming days easy, though Lya hasn’t given him a name yet, she’s been too tired, but she has been happy to hold him, which Alley says can be important for both the mother and babe.”

Ned was about to start rambling on, Petyr could tell, he had seen men suffer from this before, it was baby-brain by way of Uncledom. Not every Uncle reacted this way, but when they did they were as bad as the childs own fathers, and at a thought of father’s going crazy, Petyr couldn’t help but think on the father of the child in the next room, and he felt his expression darken. Ned seemed to notice his expression as well, and he sighed.

“Now though. We have an important matter to discuss. The boy’s father is Rhaegar. There is no dancing around the topic, Lya has told me everything. How at first it was a mutual attraction, how she fell for the mad-prince’s charm, and how after she woke up from the fantasy, the prince started to force himself on her.” Ned’s eyes turned cold and hard as flint “And who assisted him in holding her down. Who drugged her. Who was complicit in helping his mad rantings of prophecy.”

Petyr felt the egg that was still in his hand crack and shatter as he looked down to see his right hand had balled into a fist. Dustin looked equally as hard as Ned, and Howland had gone perfectly still, his eyes taking on a sheen that Petyr had only seen once before in an alleyway in King’s Landing. Ned stared at the three of them for a moment, but then he spoke slowly and deliberately.

“Two of those men are dead now, although if I had known then what I know now, I’d have done everything I could to make those deaths much slower and painful. One of them still lives, but I need not tell you three how our current situation makes retaliation difficult. I want to make it clear to you though, that while I don’t want you trying anything, I will see justice done on this matter. But there is the more important matter of the child, as while he may have been conceived in such ways, his father is still who he is, and as such there are things that must be considered.”

“Fucking Targs” Petyr swore aloud “they can’t make anything straight forward.”

“No they can not. What is worse is that Lya says that they were married by a Septon before Rhaegar let his true colours out, he also claimed he was divorcing Elia. As such if there is any proof of such a wedding and divorce is found, the boy becomes the heir to the throne for the Targs.”

A silence hung heavy in the room then, while the fates of the Targaryen claimants had been less terrible this time around, although the ones on Dragonstone where a big question mark to Petyr right now, there was no telling how Bobby B would react to this development, especially as it meant that his most hated rival’s son by the woman he was betrothed to was the topic at hand. Petyr could almost hear the second civil war that would cause if Bobby tried to harm a hair on a Stark child’s head. When Petyr finally spoke, it was slow and he chose his words carefully as while he didn’t want to offend his friend, this was going to take some harsh truths.

“As I see it Ned, there are two solutions. The first is we go and tell the complete truth, depend on Jon Arryn and Tywin Lannister to keep his grace from doing anything rash and condemn the boy into a life that will end with him at the Wall, freezing his arse off like his cousins. The other is we tell only a half truth. There are too many witnesses to the truth, not to say anything of Lyanna herself, that we could attempt any grand subterfuge, so the boys parentage will get out, but he is only a threat to the Crown if he is legitimate.”

“You are saying that we convince my sister to announce that her own son is a bastard?” Ned said, his voice taking on a hard edge again.

“If he is a bastard, we can argue for a lot more leniency from His Grace. We might be able to get it so that all he need to is renounce all claims on his majority, or his having to marry into a matrilineal line. At best as a bastard, you can help raise the boy and see to it that he becomes a cadet branch of the Starks, hell, you are the one talking about how sparsely populated the North is in parts, surely you have a keep somewhere that the boy could take? And the worst case scenario is that he grows up to go to the Wall. If he is declared legitimate, the Wall is his best case scenario, what does the boy have to lose?”

“His honour, Petyr. To be a bastard, such a stain does not easily disappear. The Wall at least is an honourable fate.”

“Piss on the honour Ned.” Petyr said, and Ned’s face went into full iceberg as he did, but he needed to get this through his friends thick skull “Honour is great, and is fantastic. But do you know what it isn’t? Practical. You were raised by Jon Arryn, and while I’m not going to besmirch my liege lord, he is an Arryn, and their words reflect how seriously they take honour. I was raised by the Tully’s Ned, and you may want to think on your wife’s families words. “Family. Duty. Honour.” There is an unsaid part of that y’know? It is “In that order”. That boy is your family, it is your duty to do the best you possibly can for him, and if that means sacrificing honour than so fucking be it.”

Petyr had let his own heat creep into his voice as he spoke, but he didn’t even realise when he had stood up from the table to lean forward to look Ned closer in the face. For a moment Petyr worried he might have finally gone too far, and considering Ned looked like he wanted to deck him, he was prepared for the worst, but then his older friend took a deep breath.

“You have a point Petyr. I do not like it. But you do, and so I will think on what you said. For now there is nothing more we can do until Lya is awake. Please, keep the matter to yourselves, I will send for you again when I need you.”

Petyr leaned back from Ned, Howland and William also rose then and the three of them nodded to Ned before leaving the room, once outside, William muttered about needing to see the Maester and left without ceremony, but Howland stayed and stared at Petyr, a slight smile to the man’s face.

“What Howland?”

“Nothing Petyr. Just glad to see you acting as you should again.”

With that Howland left Petyr alone as well. It was then that Petyr became aware of the crushed egg that was matted over his fingers and sighed, he would need to take care of that before returning to the dining hall. Although at this point he’d need to go to the kitchens if he wanted something to eat.

‘Fucking hangovers.’

***

It was midday of the following day when Ned sent for Petyr. When he arrived he was ushered into Lyanna’s room by William Dustin who was standing outside the door as a human “do not disturb” sign. Inside he found Howland and Ned seated around Lyanna’s bed while Lyanna herself was sitting up in it awake, and holding her son again. Petyr took the empty seat next Howland and sat down, and as he did he could practically feel Lyanna’s eyes boring into him. He hadn’t had much time to really interact with the woman, in fact if they had shared more than ten words so far he would be shocked, but considering she had gone through some seriously traumatic events, he wouldn’t blame her at all for being, at best, suspicious about Petyr himself, Gods knew he would be if the roles were reveresed.

“Ned” Lyanna said, still staring at Petyr “I know you said you were waiting on another person, but I did not think you meant him.”

“Peace Lya. I trust Petyr as much as I do Howland, he has done a lot to see this day, and paid a price in doing it.”

“I do not doubt that brother, but his is a southron at heart, his perception of issues is going to be different.”

“Exactly why he is useful Lya. He is capable of thinking things from other directions, and with regards to the current situation, such a solution is needed. It is not one that I particularly like, but it is not my place to determine the future of your son. Please Petyr, tell her what you told us yesterday.”

Petyr looked at Ned, cleared his throat, and then turned to face Lyanna.

“Well Lady Lyanna, as I see it, it is like this...”

He took her through the same points he had the three men yesterday, but while Ned’s face had given away what he was thinking, Lyanna Stark may as well have been stone. She simply stared at him throughout, giving nothing away about how she felt on the matter, except that as he spoke, she held her son slightly closer to herself. Finally Petyr finished and he looked at her, waiting to hear her opinion on the matter. It took a few minutes before Lyanna spoke, and when she did, her voice came out as little more than a throaty whisper.

“You are right, Lord Petyr, I want the best for my son. His father can rot in hell for all eternity, but _my_ son is not his father, he will be his own man.”

She looked at Ned then, and her eyes were filled with fire as she did, her voice sounding stronger.

“My son will not be condemned to a life at the Wall for who’s blood runs through his veins brother. He is a Stark, as much as I or you, he is a wolf, not a dragon. I do not care how that pile of _shit_ managed to seduce me, my son is not his by law or any other way but how he was placed in me by rape. My son will be a bastard Ned, but he will be my son with the future any child of House Stark should have, and you will help me fight for that. Promise me Ned.”

Lyanna was staring holes into Ned at this point, and Petyr seriously felt like he was intruding on a very private moment, but Ned nodded slowly, his own face looking as hard as stone, as it always did when he was being serious.

“I promise. He is your son Lya, he is my nephew. He is of House Stark, and I do not care how much it costs me, I _will_ see to it that is the case. I swear this by my name and the Old Gods themselves.”

Lyanna then turned to Petyr and Howland.

“You are both witness to this. Howland you are an old friend, and the Gods know if I had been wise enough to listen to you before, none of this would have happened. Lord Petyr, I do not know you, but you have sacrificed much for my health, so I owe you a debt to treat you as Ned does. I dare say our brother himself would thank you for all you’ve done, if he was still of this world.”

“I did what I did out of an oath my Lady.” Petyr said, bowing his head slightly as he spoke “I promised your brother Benjen I would do everything I could to see his brother and sister home to him, and I am not in the business of breaking oaths.”

Lyanna simply nodded in response at that.

“Good, in that case then Lord Petyr, I must ask you, how difficult do you think it will be to get my son to live his best life? If he is to live a bastard, I will swear any oaths on his behalf.”

Petyr gulped. Truth be told he didn’t know the right answer to this question at all, but still, he reckoned he understood the players in the game at the moment, and as such he might be able to advise in the right direction, especially as the Targs had, baring two notable exceptions, received generous terms by the standards of Westeros.

“As I see it, any decision on your son’s life isn’t going to simply be up to the King. If it was, considering you are betrothed to him” Lyanna’s face turned emotionless again as Petyr mentioned that “you would have an easy time of it. But considering the King’s health when we left King’s Landing, I think we should consider that, even if he recovers, for the moment such a decision is going to fall to the Lords Paramount. Tyrell and Martell are insignificant for such a decision, the former due to their being far out of favour, the latter due to Dorne being Dorne. They will just go with whatever decision keeps the peace, the Martells especially will not want to rock the boat considering the subject matter is a child of Rhaegars.”

Petyr looked between Ned and Lyanna, Ned nodded as Petyr spoke, Lyanna did not react, outside of a brief return of fire to her eyes at the mention of Rhaegar.

“Greyjoy is completely irrelevant, and probably won’t even be asked. That just leaves it to Lannister, Tully and Arryn. Tywin Lannister is an enigma, so I’m afraid I have no real opinion or advice there, but considering this doesn’t threaten his family or standing in any way, he might just be willing to see things our way. Ned’s goodfather won’t care as the Tully name will not be affected either. That just leaves my own liege lord.”

“Surely Petyr, you don’t think John Arryn would object to all this?”

“Ned. I do not know him as you do. You were fostered by him, practically raised by him, I barely know him outside of the campaigns and interacting with him in the Eyrie before all this began. John Arryn will do whatever he thinks will keep the peace in the realm, and if that means your nephew must take the black, he will bring him to Castle Black himself. I have a suggestion that might help to sway him, but I don’t think either of you will like it.”

“Petyr, I hardly like what you have suggested already, whatever it is, say it.”

“Fair enough Ned. You would agree that John Arryn is an honourable man?”

Ned nodded.

“Well then. Name him” he pointed at the babe in Lyanna’s arms “after him.”

The small chamber went quiet at the suggestion, Lyanna looked at her son while Ned’s face was a battleground of conflicting emotions. The silence was broken by Howland, who so far during all of this hadn’t said a single word.

“It makes sense.” Both Starks looked at Howland who shrugged. “Man of honour or not, John Arryn is a high nobleman, if he thinks you are honouring him by naming the child after him, he will hesitate to sentence him to an extreme fate. He is also a ruthless enough man that if he thinks he can use the name of the child as an excuse to support you, to appear lenient only due to the name and bond with you Ned, he will, if for no other reason than if it ever comes around to harm him, he can save some face. Besides” Howland said, his face taking on a smile “Jon just sounds right to me for some reason.”

Lyanna smiled back at Howland herself.

“It does, doesn’t it? Much better than the name Rhaegar” her voice filled with venom saying the name “wanted. It honestly couldn’t be more the opposite, and that is another point in its favour. Ned” she said turning to face her brother again “you will have to carry on the family names in your own children. For this is your nephew Jon, he is a Stark.”

“That he is Lya, that he is.”

Glad that the issue was hopefully resolved, Petyr got up to leave, when Lyanna spoke again.

“Lord Petyr, please, a moment. Considering how helpful you have been to me on this issue, I was hoping you could give some advice on another issue.”

Petyr looked to Ned who seemed as surprised by this as Petyr felt.

“Certainly my Lady, how can I help you?” Petyr asked slowly, and as he did he noticed Lyanna smiled, but it was the sort of smile that belonged on a wolf.

“Oh it is not I that needs advice. It is my brother.” She turned to stare at Ned, that same smile still on her face. “As I understand it, he has a daughter through some, uncommon but understandable circumstances, and if he doesn’t handle this correctly, he will be dragging the Stark name through the mud. Tell me brother, when exactly were you going to do right by Lady Ashara?”

Ned’s face went beat red at this, not out of anger, but out of what Petyr realised was embarrassment.

“Well, with you being with child and everything that happened, I was hoping to do it when things settled down.”

Ned mumbled his answer, and it was greeted with laughter from Lyanna.

“Oh Ned, you idiot. You haven’t even said two words to the poor woman since you got here have you?”

“No.”

“Gods, be grateful Brandon isn’t here, he would tease you even worse, as it is I’m too tired. You do need to make this right though. Her little girl is your daughter.”

“I know Lya, I know. But I’m married now to a different woman. I can’t care for the girl like I should be able to. I can hardly return home with a bastard daughter in my arms to my wife and expect that to end happily. Are you okay Petyr?”

Ned asked the last part as Petyr let out a sudden hacking cough that was not in any way a cover for a snort of laughter, and no one could prove any different.

“Yes, yes I’m fine Ned. Sorry, just swallowed wrong.”

“Alright then” Ned said, looking at Petyr with an odd expression “but back to the matter at hand” he said turning back to Lyanna “how am I supposed to fix this?”

“Simple Ned. The girl is yours, you can acknowledge her, offer to pay to for her care as a child and for her to come north when she is a few years older. You and Ashara were betrothed, maybe not completely yet, but as much as anyone could be. You consummated that betrothal, she didn’t drink moon-tea as she was, after all, to be your wife. Things changed, but you have a daughter out of it in circumstances that have happened before. No one will judge you for it, and if my goodsister has issues with this” the smile on Lyanna’s face became downright predatory “I will gladly talk with her on the issue.”

***

After the few days excitement following the birth of Jon and the stable fire had passed, things returned to the same sort of quiet normality that they had been in Starfall. Ned managed to settle things with Ashara, even signing a contract with Lord Alyn Dayne witnessed by Petyr, Lady Ashara, Howland and the castles Maestar, stating that he would pay for the upkeep of Alysanne Sands, and acknowledging her as his child, with her to travel to Winterfell on her seventh nameday, and at her majority be given the choice to return to Starfall. The fact she was also named for his great-great Aunt, a name that Ashara had picked due to the way it seemed to fit what Petyr assumed was the Dayne default naming scheme, helped to smooth things over as well. Petyr had also managed to approach Lady Ashara one afternoon and ask if he had done something to offend her, she had assured him that no, he had not, and that she was sorry if she had offended him. Which had been odd to say the least, but Petyr had at least been relieved to learn he hadn’t done something stupid in his drunken escapades, and seemingly Lady Ashara actually seemed a lot happier at the moment, which Petyr put down to Ned settling things. All and all things were calming down, Petyr was even starting to spar with Howland and William as while he was at a disadvantage, it at least gave him something to do. He was just getting the bandages removed from his head by the Maester, when, of course, that peace and calm was disrupted yet again.

The first Petyr knew of it was when he saw ten armed men with the Martell sigil on their chests moving away from the stables, which was all he needed to see to know that something was up, and so he made his way through the castle to where Ned and Lyanna were quartered, meeting up with Howland and William as he went. The three of them said nothing to each other, simply falling into step together, and entered into Lyanna’s quarters were Ned was sitting with his sister, his nephew, and Lady Ashara and his daughter. At their entrance, Lady Ashara’s seemed surprised, but she didn’t make to move or seem frightened in anyway.

“Ned” William spoke “eleven Martell men just showed up at the castle. Lord Alyn greeted one of them and walked off with him, and unless I’m mistaken, it was the Red Viper.”

Petyr looked at William when he said that. He hadn’t been there for it obviously, but things started to make sense in his head, and if Oberyn Martell was here, it couldn’t be for anything minor.

“If Oberyn is here” Ashara said raising from her seat “I should be by my brothers side. He wouldn’t be here for a trivial matter.”

She held her hands out to Ned for Alysanne, and Ned handed the little girl over to her, and with her daughter in hand Ashara left the room of Northerners, and Petyr. It was after a moment that Lyanna spoke aloud the thoughts that were running through Petyr’s mind.

“Do you think this could mean trouble for us? House Martell was on the side of the Mad-King, and we would be valuable hostages to them for negotiating.”

Lyanna Stark, Petyr was fast discovering, seemed to possess a sharp mind that had only gotten more cynical and capable after her kidnapping, if nothing else, she seemed a lot more politically clued in and morally grey than her brother. But on this issue, Petyr felt in his gut that she might be wrong.

“I don’t think so” he said, drawing the attention of the room “as for one, his sister and her children are still in King’s Landing. Secondly, there are the actions of myself and Howland during the fall of King’s Landing, and thirdly there is that after our actions, it was loyal men of House Stark that were guarding the lady and her children. At absolute worst, Prince Doran, would keep us to make sure that Lady Elia and her children are handed over with no fuss, and even then they wouldn’t want to actually insult us. Besides, Dorne needs to be part of the Seven Kingdoms, too much commerce and food comes from the other six kingdoms for Dorne to ever truly be independent. Doran, might be willing to try and negotiate a little bit, but he is smarter than to try and do it in such a way that would insult the King by threatening us.”

“And you feel quite sure of that?” Lyanna asked again, staring Petyr in the eye.

“As sure as any man can be when dealing with the family Martell. They are an old family with only one goal, survival, and if that is your goal in a harsh environment you learn to do whatever you need to do.”

“A concept the North is not entirely alien to.” Lyanna responded, a slight smile on her face as Dustin let out a laugh and Howland and Ned also smiled. Petyr in turn simply shrugged and held his hands up in mock surrender.

“My apologies, I forget sometimes that I am surrounded by wild northern savages. I would say the best that we could do right now would be to play it by ear, Prince Oberyn can not exactly ignore that a Lord Paramount, and the betrothed of the King are in this castle, but how he acts would be the best indicator to us of how we should respond.”

***

As it turned out, it didn’t take long for Prince Oberyn to act at all. It was over the dinner table that the Red Viper made his intentions known, after formally greeting Ned and co, including Lyanna for the first time out of her bed in days, he had turned his attention to both Petyr and Howland. Oberyn insisted on sitting beside Petyr and Howland, and when he called for quiet in the hall to address the pair, Petyr only slightly wanted to crawl into his clothes and disappear.

“Lord Howland, Lord Petyr. My sister’s words about your actions, and the actions of Ser Jaime Lannister, were extremely glowing, but even if they had not been I would still be honour bound to acknowledge and thank you both in your roles in safekeeping my sister and her children. As such, I would like to call a toast. To Lords Baelish and Reed, if there were only more such men in the world, hard times would never assail us..”

Petyr awkwardly accepted the attention that the toast brought, Howland barely seemed fazed by it, and as the toast finished ringing out in the hall, the occupants, thankfully, returned to their meals while Prince Oberyn leaned in closer to Petyr.

“My brother also sends his regards Lord Petyr. You are forever a friend of House Martell for your actions, even if you killed no King or Mountain.”

Oberyn flashed him a smile at that, a smile that happily reassured to the world that yes, Oberyn Martell had game in spades.

“Well thank you Prince Oberyn, though I was hoping I could ask a potentially sensitive question of you?”

Oberyn shrugged at Petyr’s request before he spoke back.

“Not too sensitive a question I hope Lord Baelish, I think we would both need more drinks and a more private setting for that.” Oberyn spoke with another smile and rested a hand for a moment on Petyr’s left forearm. It was a sort of light teasing flirting that he probably hoped would throw Petyr off a bit for his own amusement.

“Probably, also a safeword or two, but alas no.” Oberyn’s eyebrows shot up at Petyr’s response, but before he could say anything else Petyr carried on. “I was more curious as to why you are here at Starfall at this moment in time. I can understand if it is a confidential matter on behalf of your brother, but I hope that you can see why from my perspective your appearance would draw a considerable amount of.... _curiosity_.” Petyr also put a certain amount of emphasis on the last word while adding his own grin to it.

‘You have a long long way to go if you think a bit of flirting is going to mess with me sunshine.’ He thought while Oberyn let out a laugh before he took a drink.

“Very well Lord Baelish, I will let you know. I am here to make certain that not only do you and your companions return safely from Dorne, I am also to travel to King’s Landing to represent my brother as he is ill at the moment and can not travel. I am also tasked with escorting Ser Arthur to the capital for appropriate punishment, on pain of banishment from Dorne.”

“I see. I guess your brother doesn’t believe in using three men when one will do?”

“No. I prefer to use as many men as it takes to get a job done though.” Oberyn said and gave Petyr another smile.

“Touché.” Petyr responded, and Oberyn’s expression became slightly more intense then as he looked at him.

“Perhaps later.”

***

It was five days after Oberyn had shown up that Davos finally put into harbour at Starfall, slightly over a month since he had dropped off Petyr and the rest of the group on the other side of Dorne. According to Davos, he had made fantastic time with favourable winds, and Ned’s face had sunk when he realised that meant he may have to spend over a month on a boat to get back to King’s Landing. It took Lyanna and Petyr both reassuring him that they wouldn’t be on the boat non-stop to King’s Landing before the Lord Paramount of the North looked anything better than sullen at the prospect. Petyr tried not to laugh at his friends obvious discomfort, Lyanna didn’t try, she just laughed at her brother. While Davos took on supplies and allowed his crew some rest, preparations were made in Starfall for the journey. The bones of the dead to return North were individually crated, necessary provisions for Jon Undetermined-Surname were procured, William Dustin’s final dressing was removed and Petyr tried desperately to get used to the feeling of the leather eyepatch he was now wearing in place of just showing off another fun scar. All in all, things progressed smoothly and Petyr waited in the main hall of Starfall with the others as they prepared to leave, they were missing only Oberyn and Arthur, and while they waited Petyr took the opportunity to peer at the sword that was sitting in a special place in the hall.

Dawn.

Petyr had seen a Valyrian Steel sword, Ned had even allowed him to handle Ice a small amount in a ‘see what it is like to hold’ sense. But Dawn was a different sword all together, the blade was white, almost like porcelain, and from what he had seen of it, and had been told, it weighed the same as a Valyrian steel blade while also never needing to be sharpened. There was definitely a mystery involved there, but Petyr would be damned if he was going to start chasing down that rabbit hole, he would leave the sword to its wielder, Petyr’s concerns were on a grander scale. Although he had been really tempted to stash the thing and chuck it in the water for what Arthur had done, but he had been way too indisposed to have a say in what was done with it. And as he thought of Ser Arthur, he appeared flanked by Prince Oberyn and Lord Alyn.

Ned and company had already been told that Arthur Dayne would be accompanying them back to King’s Landing to present himself before the Iron Throne. Lyanna had not been happy at that revelation, but Ned had promised her to not leave her side until the last reminder of her ordeal was safely away from her. Of course then Ned had been angered when he found out that Ser Arthur was to bring Dawn with him, as due to his being the Sword of the Morning, he couldn’t leave it behind. And so Arthur Dayne crossed over to where the sword was kept and placed his hand on the hilt to lift it up to place it in his scabbard. And instantly, he screamed.

Petyr’s head whipped around at the noise, as did almost everyone else in the room, and looked to see that Arthur had dropped Dawn on the ground and was doubled over in pain, clutching his right hand.

“Fetch the Maester now!” Lord Alyn bellowed as he moved over beside his brother. The two babies in the hall started to cry at the sudden noise, and as Ashara and Lyanna tried to soothe their children, Petyr moved in closer to see what had happened. As he got closer the smell hit him, the smell of burned pork, except it wasn’t pork, as he saw the skin and flesh in Ser Arthur’s hand had been seared red and white, as if burned by picking up a hot coal. Petyr looked from the hand, to the pommel of Dawn, and saw on the pommel a small bit of what he realised was skin, was burning into a crisp on the handle, as the sword just lay there. At the Maester’s arrival, Lord Alyn moved from his brother, and gingerly touched the sword before lifting it up.

“It feels almost cool” he said, not looking at anyone, instead focused on the sword “it has never done this before.”

“Brother” Ashara said, moving to stand beside him “it may never have done this before, but do you remember Old Sam’s tale about the fallen morning?”

“That was just a story though, something to make you careful around it. Nothing more.”

“Maybe brother, or maybe Dawn has rejected Arthur for some reason.”

Petyr just stared on at the conversation between siblings dumb-founded. He had never heard of such a story, and probably didn’t even need to hear it as he knew what he had seen. Dawn had burned Arthur Dayne’s hand when he tried to pick it up, but hadn’t done so when picked up by another, that could only mean one thing.

“Fucking magic.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

**Petyr XVI**

“ _Farewell and adieu, to you Dornish ladies,_

_Farewell and adieu, to you ladies of Dorne._

_For we’ve received orders to sail for ol’ Landing,_

_And we may ne’er see you fair ladies no more._ ”

Petyr was roughly halfway up the rigging on the “Black Bess”, Davos Seaworth’s ship, and in the mid-morning heat that was already baking into his bones, he felt happy for the first time in a long time. Climbing rigging, it turned out, did not require two working eyes, and considering he had grown restless less than three days into the two week long journey to Plankytown, he had been delighted when Davos had let him join his crew to learn the ropes, literally. The crew had, not surprisingly, been somewhat unsure as of what to make of his presence, after all he was hardly the highest ranked noble on the ship, technically that was Ned, but he was still a Lord, and now he was trying to be a normal sailor.

“ _We’ll rant and we’ll roar like true salted sailors,_

_We’ll rant and we’ll roar all around the Storm Seas,_

_Until we strike soundings, in the channel of ol’ Landing,_

_From Estmont to Tarth, is thirty-five leagues._ ”

At first they had of course been standoffish, the elevation of their captain was still strange to most of the crew. But Petyr’s enthusiasm, and willingness to do the more unpopular tasks without complaint, had earned him their grudging acceptance. The inherent comedy they found in Petyr’s willingness to climb to the topmasts, seeming to be related to the presence of Oberyn Martell and Petyr’s willingness to escape from the can of worms he had opened by flirting back, meant that they accepted him more, and then had come the singing.

“ _Then we hove our ship to, with the wind to sou’west boys,_

_Then we hove our ship to, deep soundings to take._

_The we fill the main topsail, and bore right away boys,_

_And straight up the channel of ol’Landing we steer._ ”

The crew had known songs, of course, but Petyr had not due to the fact that they were the sort of songs that the show had never shown off, what with its obsession with “Rains of Castamere” and “Bear and the Maiden Fair”. The former was almost never sung by anyone that wasn’t a Lannister soldier, the latter was fairly popular, but Petyr had sat and listened as the sailors sang “The Kraken’s Bride”, “Old Drunk Egg” and “Fish in the Sea”, the last of whom was totally different to the song Petyr knew by the same title. Then in a lull, he had shamelessly stolen “Spanish Ladies”, filed off the serial numbers, and presented it as “Dornish Ladies”.

“ _We’ll rant and we’ll roar like true salted sailors,_

_We’ll rant and we’ll roar all around the Storm Seas,_

_Until we strike soundings, in the channel of ol’ Landing,_

_From Estmont to Tarth, is thirty-five leagues._ ”

The crew had liked it. They had liked it a lot. They had all but demanded he teach the song to them the night he came up with it, and now the crew sang it whenever they could, much to the delight of Petyr and Davos, and the pain of Ned “oh gods the world is still moving and I’m green and these men won’t shut up” Stark, who still managed to get seasick regularly and would much rather lay down in a quiet stationary room. Petyr felt sorry for his friend, of course, but considering he had an audience to perform for now, Ned should probably best be prepared for this crew singing songs. After all, if they had liked “Dornish Ladies”, Petyr was sure they would like “The Worst Old Ship.”

*******

The plus side of Plankytown was that it was, for the first time in far too long, a town where Petyr was able to actually relax for a while as he walked the streets and markets. He was alone for almost the first time since he had woken up in Riverrun, and he was revelling in the solitary nature of his wanderings around the exotic town. The negative side though, was the proximity of the town to Sunspear, the capital of Dorne, and while Oberyn was due to be acting on Doran’s behalf in King’s Landing, that did not mean that the Prince of Dorne was going to ignore the chance to meet the Warden of the North, even if it meant delaying Ned and his party’s travels by three days, at least. However in this delay, Petyr had found opportunity, and so he had managed to arrange it so that he was able to stay behind in Plankytown as opposed to making the trip to Sunspear, and while Ned and Howland went off with Oberyn to Sunspear to pay their respects, Petyr remained behind in Planky to look after Lyanna and Jon, as the formers constitution and unwillingness to make the journey had been the excuse Petyr had needed, after all of course Lady Lyanna needed someone to be there in these trying times for her. It was a load of bullshit, as everyone knew, but it was the sort of polite bullshit that everyone had to accept, and so Petyr was free. And as he turned a corner from the markets back towards the inn that Oberyn had put them in, Petyr steeled himself as he prepared to take advantage of the benefit of Ned being fairly far away, even then, Petyr had nearly managed to dither on the matter until Ned and co were due back anyway.

It didn’t take him long to find his way to the rooms that he was in, but he skipped past them and nodded to William who was sitting outside the door. He had remained behind, much like Petyr had, to ostensibly guard Lyanna, but in reality he had simply not been up to the journey as while the wound on his right arm was all but healed at this point, the damage done to it had meant his right hand was all but lame, which made riding difficult. William simply nodded back, raised a quizzical eyebrow at the purchases Petyr had made, but said nothing as Petyr knocked on the door to Lyanna’s room, and then cracked it open slightly.

“Lyanna, it is Petyr, do you mind if I come in?” He asked in a loud whisper, he should have timed it so that Jon would be awake, but if not he didn’t want to be responsible for waking the baby out of a nap early.

“Yes Petyr” came the response at a normal volume “you may enter.”

Petyr made his way in to the room, purchases in hand, and closed the door behind him with only a slight amount of hesitation. Petyr found that being around Lyanna made him quite nervous, not in a “pretty woman speak words” complete idiot way but in a “this woman has survived a serious trauma and could probably kill me” way, which didn’t help considering the topic he was about to broach. He put the things he had purchased down on a table, and took from them a small soft blanket with a knitted animal on it, a horse, and handed it to baby Jon, much to the babies cooing delight.

“If you have purchased all that for him, I’m afraid it will be quite a while for him to use it.”

Lyanna was sitting nearby, and she had watched Petyr the whole time he approached Jon, but now her eyes had settled on the items Petyr had purchased.

“Oh, no. I just saw the blanket and figured it would make for a comfort for the lad while we keep travelling. Might help him sleep easier to have something constant to sleep with. The rest is for me, unless of course you want to see what he would do with a couple of bottles of ink and an Essosi guitar?”

“It was more the dagger hiding among the other items I was worried about.”

Petyr smiled at her then, and simply spread his hands out in a non-threatening gesture.

“Oh no, you saw through my cunning guile to hide it.” He said, his voice dripping in sarcasm before returning to normal. “I needed a new belt knife, and that one got my attention, you can hold on to it while I’m here if you wish, but I’d rather you did not.”

Lyanna’s eyes narrowed at the end of the sentence, and as she looked at him Petyr felt very much like running away.

“Oh Lord Petyr, and why is that?”

Her usage of his title made him want to run away even more, they had agreed to stop using those a while ago now, during one of their shorter “Ned mandated” conversations, but her reversion to it was nothing less than a massive red flag to Petyr, but he couldn’t afford to just leave the conversation here, he had wasted too much time avoiding it and now if he did again, he might not get an opportunity to talk to her privately until King’s Landing itself. So he steeled himself and plunged forwards.

“Well, to be blunt, I need to talk to you about the future. Not Jon’s future, but your one.”

She stiffened as he got to the point, and her hands tensed up as she continued to stare at him, which meant he felt really justified asking her not to have a dagger, as he couldn’t quite ignore the voice in his mind telling him to flee. But he couldn’t, he could only keep going.

“Specifically, your marriage. I only know abstractly what you went through, I can not possibly hope to fully understand and I do not mean to underplay it, but you _have_ to get married to Robert Baratheon as, and I say this with no exaggeration, the entire Seven Kingdoms depends on it. To a lot of people, this whole war is your fault, a load of bullshit for any number of reasons, but to them the simple solution is to say that you caused all of this by not being able to stay a pure maiden until your wedding day. So if they see you show up at King’s Landing, child in tow, and manage to avoid the marriage that to them was the entire point of this war, it is going to do nothing but make a lot of people very angry.”

Petyr felt like he was rambling a bit as he spoke, but he couldn’t help it, he didn’t want to take a break as he feared if he did, Lyanna would be able to interrupt him and he would lose any chance of making his point.

“A lot of those people are very powerful individuals, people who have lost family and loved ones in this war, people who would think that they very much decided to support the wrong side in those sort of circumstances. People who would think nothing of allowing you, no matter how unfair it is, to become the face of weakness and ineptitude of this new regime, and then use you as their reasoning for either turning around and trying to restore the Targaryens, or starting a whole other war to put someone else on the throne. I’m sorry to say this, I really truly am, but unless you play into the image that people want from you Lyanna, both you and Jon’s futures may not be as rosy as we would all like.”

She stared at him some more, but then looked to her son, and finally her own hands.

“However” Petyr said, terrified that he might have accidentally threatened both her and her son and might be on the edge of driving her into a murderous “momma bear” fuelled rage “I want you to know this. If you want to take Jon, board the first available ship to Essos, and make a new life for yourself and your son far far away from your responsibilities, I will not stop you. Quite the opposite, I would come with you, as frankly facing Ned after he loses you again so quickly is a fate I’d rather avoid.”

She looked at him again, her head snapping up in a way that Petyr was shocked he didn’t hear it audibly snap.

“I did also swear to Benjen that I’d get you and Ned home safely, and if that means helping you find a new home, so be it. But mainly, all I wanted to do here was make sure you understood what stands before you, and give you the information without any niceties, so that you can make whatever decision you want without someone pushing an angle. The choice is yours.”

Petyr finally shut up then, he hadn’t quite planned on offering to run off to Essos with Lyanna when he entered the room, but his mouth sometimes tended to run off slightly faster than his brain, and now he stood feeling like an idiot as he asked this woman to decide the entire future of Westeros _right now_ because he had wanted to avoid this very conversation.

“I will not lie Petyr. I do not want to marry Robert Baratheon. I do not want to marry any man, I have seen what “romantic love”” she managed to put a lot of venom in to the words “has wrought when I ran away for it, and I have always known that a marriage of politics would be nothing but misery.”

She picked Jon up in to her arms then, and looked deeply at her son before she continued.

“But I am not a fool, at least I try not to be again. What I want in life no longer matters, what matters is my son, above all else. You failed to mention that if I do marry Robert Baratheon, more than simply coddling the sensibilities of the den of vipers and snakes that is the nobility, it will also make assuring my son’s future that much easier. It will also mean countless other mothers might make their own sons life’s better, as if it comes down to my wants and the wants of the Kingdoms, well, I’ve seen the price of choosing wrong already.”

That was _not_ the response that Petyr had been expecting. It vaguely resembled the one that he had hoped for, and at this exact moment in time that was enough of a victory that Petyr was perfectly fine taking it. He started to make his way over to his stuff, when he heard a conversation outside and upon recognizing one of the voices he quietly tried to hide as best he could while Lyanna stared at him.

“I’m not here.” He managed to whisper loudly as the door opened.

“Lady Lyanna, I am so sorry to interrupt” came the voice of Oberyn Martell “but I was wondering if Lord Baelish is with you? Your brother and Lord Reed are behind me, but I was hoping to have a private conversation with Lord Baelish before any plans were put in place to return to sea.”

“I’m afraid” Lyanna began, her gaze shifting from Petyr’s makeshift hiding space towards the doorway “that you just missed him Prince Oberyn. Lord Baelish said something about forgetting something in the market and left.”

“Odd, when I asked Lord Dustin he said he had gone in to your quarters not too long ago.”

“Ah” came the voice of William Dustin “I did get up to use the privy, it is possible Lord Baelish left while I was, indisposed.”

Petyr whispered a silent prayer of thanks to the Old Gods and made a mental note to somehow, someday, repay William Dustin for being quick enough to cop on to what was going on and play along.

“I see.” The words had a definitive “ _I know you are lying, but it would be impolite of me to push the issue_ ” tone to them, but the door closed, and after a few moments Petyr was certain that Prince Oberyn Martell had retreated, for now at least. He let out a deep held breath of relief and looked at Lyanna and gave her a half bow.

“You know he isn’t going to give up that easily? I mean, whatever you two men get up to is your business, but he is a man of strong passions.”

Lyanna spoke, her tone more light-hearted and jeering than her previous one, and Petyr felt his cheeks going red.

“I, well, em. Ok, let me say this much. I’m not interested in men, at least not to the degree that someone like Prince Oberyn is? I’m just an incorrigible flirt alright? And Gods new and old I’ve gotten myself into a corner on this one. If I had a dragon for every time I want to slap past me I could buy out the Iron Bank at this point. Gods, I need to talk to him, but that is going to be so bloody awkward and just uggh.”

Lyanna let out a laugh at that, and she looked at him and pointed to a chair in the room.

“You may as well sit down then. Prince Oberyn will probably be waiting in the corridor, or nearby, to ambush you for a while yet, and unless you want to go deal with him now, you might as well make yourself comfortable here, at least until Howland and Ned are here as well.”

“Thank you very much.” He said as he made his way to the chair and sat down. But as silence returned to the room, it started to become a somewhat awkward one, one that was eventually broken by Lyanna pointing at the instrument Petyr had purchased.

“You called that a geetar? From Essos? I must admit it just looks like an oddly shaped lute to me.”

Petyr looked down at the instrument, it wasn’t exactly what he would have called a “real” guitar, it was much closer to the guitars predecessor the Vihuela than anything else, but it was a damn sight closer than the modified lute Petyr had been using and presumably was still somewhere in the baggage train of the Northern Army. He had almost done a double take when he had seen a Myrish merchant selling it, and it had in turn cost him a fair amount of his rapidly dwindling funds, but he had it, and he hoped it would prove a worthwhile distraction in the coming days of constant boredom that he would have in King’s Landing.

“Yes” he said, picking it up properly in his hands, and then shifting to put his other things back on the table “it is basically an evolution of the lute. The merchant I purchased it from claims it is a master sample of the instrument, which is of course a load of bollocks, but I hope it will do for now at least.”

“Between the instrument and the songs you are teaching Ser Davos’s sailors, I wonder if you are actually a nobleman at all? Or simply a minstrel that managed to get caught up in all this?”

“Alas if I was but a minstrel, then I would have no cares and worries. Well, except for the need to eat and shelter, but those are trivial things. Do you mind if I test it out? I only got to do a basic scale when I purchased it.”

“Go ahead Petyr, but please, nothing cheerful about courtly love, I’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime.”

Lyanna’s face took on a dark tone again as she said that, but Petyr said nothing, instead focusing on the alien but familiar strings and their noises. It took him some time to get it resembling something he recognized, but as he plucked at the strings, he felt his confidence in the noise grow until he could hear a song he recognized in it.

“ _Blackbird singing in the dead of night,_

_take these broken wings and learn to fly,_

_all your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arise.”_

***

The journey to King’s Landing was much like the journey to Plankytown, just longer, but the excitement that the crew of Davos’s ship, not to say from Davos himself, at seeing their home after an extended period at sea was almost infectious as Petyr found himself looking forward to returning to the city as well. That excitement lasted up until Ser Davos remarked that it was odd that the docks were as quiet as they were, and Petyr remembered that the Royal Fleet was probably off surrounding Dragonstone, and depending on how things went there, there may still be a fair amount of widows and orphans left to be made. Their arrival was also not without notice, as a group consisting of men in House Stark colours, ones that had remained behind in King’s Landing as the majority of the Northern Army went home, greeted them. There was some initial awkwardness, but Lyanna was quickly recognizing some faces and trading jokes, all the while holding Jon close to her. Ned was firing off orders, and runners were going too and fro, Dustin was also giving orders, mainly for the unloading and care of the bones of the men who were not returning alive. Even Howland was talking to men he knew, other Northern men who were in nondescript clothing as opposed to the colours of any particular house, all of which meant that Petyr suddenly felt quite lonely, although unlike Arthur Dayne, he wasn’t at least stuck with a still bandaged hand and being led away by armed Golodcloaks.

That feeling didn’t abate as the group was brought to the Red Keep, not even Oberyn seemed interested in Petyr as the man seemed to be singularly focused on the structure itself, probably trying to look through it towards his sister and her children, something that Petyr could hardly blame him for. Finally they arrived and Petyr saw a friendly face, though it was not the one he was expecting.

“Eddard my boy, Gods but I am glad to see you returned safe.”

Jon Arryn, standing tall and in a sky blue outfit was waiting at the courtyard for them as they arrived, and while Petyr looked around in the hopes of seeing the Blackfish, he didn’t see anyone in Tully colours anywhere.

“Jon” Ned answered as he dismounted “I am glad to see you too.”

He then clasped arms with the man that had, until before all this madness began, his superior in many ways. And as the others followed in dismounting, John’s attention shifted.

“Lady Lyanna” Arryn said next, turning to her and giving her a shallow bow “I am glad to see you well as well, although I dare say that appearances may be slightly deceptive at the moment?”

He turned his attention to the bundle in Lyanna’s arms as he spoke, and Petyr felt himself slightly tense up, this was going to be the first hurdle for Lyanna and Jon, and he couldn’t do a thing about it, not to Jon Arryn.

“Lord Arryn” Lyanna said as she managed something approaching a curtsey while holding Jon “may I introduce my son Jon Stark? I understand his father is rotting in a black cell somewhere as he deserves?”

The courtyard seemed to go silent at that, and Petyr was certain he had stopped breathing. There had been talk of Jon being given a branch name, something like “Whitestark” or “Northstark” so as to make his legitimization an easier pill to swallow for the nobility as a whole, but Lyanna had just claimed her son as part of the main family, while at the same time introducing him to his namesake and throwing shade at Prince Rhaegar at the same time. After a moment, Jon Arryn began to speak.

“Yes Lady Lyanna, Rhaegar currently is in the Black Cells, as befits any man of his numerous crimes, but as to the other matters that will be up to the Lords Paramount and his Grace to decide. King Robert is of course eager to see both yourself and Lord Eddard at your earliest convenience, he would be here himself but Grand Maester Pycelle insists on the King receiving bedrest. Now, Prince Oberyn” John turned his attention from Lyanna, and before she could say anything else Ned placed a firm hand on her shoulder “I understand that you are here as a representative of your brother, but I felt you would wish to confirm the health and comfort of your sister and her children before involving yourself in the matters of negotiations that are ongoing among the Lords Paramount and their representatives?”

“You are correct Lord Arryn, if you would have someone guide me to them now?”

Jon simply nodded at a nearby page boy in Baratheon yellow and black who hopped to the task and led Oberyn away, much to Petyr’s temporary relief. The introductions and greetings continued then until Jon turned his attention to Petyr, and Petyr sketched out a bow as best he can.

“I see Lord Petyr, that you have been injured in your services to Lord Eddard?”

“My own stupidity My Lord, I attempted to fight Arthur Dayne by myself and paid the price for it.”

“I see. Yet you still live, and have, no doubt, acted with the utmost honour and capability that is coming to define you. You and I still need to discuss your future, but not now. However I will say this, there has been some serious argument about who exactly may issue you the oaths of Knighthood.”

“Sorry, what?” Petyr almost wanted the response back as soon as he said it, but judging from the slight smile that broke out on Jon Arryn and Ned’s faces, there was no chance of that happening.

“Your lack of a knighthood has been noticed by those that have been following your actions and progress over the last few months Petyr, and resolving that mistake has become a minor political hot topic as my own heir, the Blackfish and Ser Jaime have all requested the honour at this point. Where His Grace not currently consigned to his bed, I dare say the matter would be settled in a more straight forward fashion.”

Petyr swallowed, he simply felt dumbfounded, and as Jon Arryn turned to Ned, clearly done with Petyr for the moment, he continued to feel slightly bemused until a Royal Page led him away towards what he was told would be his chambers while he was in the capital. The room wasn’t particularly grand, not small either, and as Petyr started to relax for the first time in a _long_ time, his mind continued to race.


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

**Petyr XVII**

To the victors, the spoils. The Targaryen’s were completely and totally done, and while Stannis still had to take Dragonstone, the divvying up of Westeros among the winners was well and truly underway. Men who had not been knights or Lords were finding their positions in life changed in an upwardly mobile fashion, while more than a few men who had been knights and Lords were moving in a _downwardly_ mobile fashion. That at least was the main gossip that surrounded the court of King Robert Baratheon, First of His Name. Personally, Petyr couldn’t give less of a damn about the changing titles if he tried, he was infinitely more interested in the debates happening amongst the most powerful men in Westeros about the shape that the Seven Kingdoms would take in the future, as it seemed very much like “business as usual” was off the table. If the few crumbs of information he’d picked up were true, it was the frailty of Robert’s health combined with more details as to what caused the Rebellion, or at least the politically correct version of what caused the Rebellion, that were making the various Lord’s Paramount, their representatives, and their most powerful bannermen decide to take a firm “let’s try to avoid that happening again” stance. From what little he could gleam, it seemed that Tywin Lannister and Jon Arryn were the main personalities pushing for change, though the two allegedly had different views on what that change should mean.

That was about where Petyr’s information on the whole matter ended. When all was said and done, he was still the absolute most minor of Lords, and his advice and opinions had not been sought on the matter of the future of Westeros. Ned seemed happy to just follow along with whatever Jon Arryn had to propose, the Blackfish was under orders from his brother to get the best deal that benefitted House Tully and sod the rest. He didn’t want to go anywhere near the Martell contingent as that brought him in contact with Oberyn, though he hadn’t been able to turn down an offer of a polite dinner with Elia and Oberyn, though at least Howland and Jaime Lannister had been invited along as well so he hadn’t been totally alone. The other Valelords were not sure what to think of Petyr, as while he was one of them he hadn’t covered himself in glory in _their_ company, and as such they were at best distant, and unwilling to share information with him, and pumping Jon Arryn for information was not an approach Petyr wanted to try. The other houses, including the Greyjoy’s, were non-starters for him information wise, so he found himself having a lot of time on his hands, and while that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing vis-a-vie figuring out what comes next, it did mean he was spending a lot of time in his own company, and that wasn’t exactly austere company, and days of investigating the masonry of King’s Landing had grown boring.

So it had been of a lack of anything better to do that he found himself follower the head gaoler through the corridors of the Black Cells. Trials for people that had been on the wrong side where on-going, and it was as much theatre as justice, and as such the second biggest “trial” that everyone was interested in was being kept till the end. The three men that would be on “trial”, and it was more a sentencing than anything resembling a trial, where currently housed in three very different accommodations. One of them was in the Tower of the Hand, and had been politely disarmed until this whole embarrassing situation could be resolved, one was also disarmed, but was staying in the quarters of the Kingsguard on parole. The third was consigned to the Black Cells, and if that didn’t bode ill for the man’s future, the fact that the Gaoler told Petyr he had been the only visitor to Arthur Dayne since his internment, was even more damming. The Gaoler had taken a bribe, of course, and had insisted on searching the food Petyr was bringing to make sure there were no weapons, and the wine to make sure it wasn’t poison. Now after opening the cell door and placing the torch in his hand into a scone on the wall, he had turned and faced Petyr

“I will be waiting outside My Lord, when you are ready to leave the prisoner, rap on the cell door.”

With that he passed Petyr, and closed the cell door behind Petyr. The door closed with a rather firm and ominous clung noise, and Petyr was now alone with Arthur Dayne.

“Ser Arthur.”

“Lord Petyr.”

The older man looked like death warmed up, but he still managed to sound relaxed and conversational as he responded to Petyr. That the two hadn’t shared words since Petyr lost his eye, and that they were having a conversation on the eve of the trial of the remaining members of the Kingsguard, made Petyr suddenly feel somewhat embarrassed that he was here, but Petyr had questions, and Dayne was the only one with answers. Petyr cleared his throat and then presented the food and wine he had brought with him to the older man.

“I reckoned you wouldn’t exactly be on the best of food down here, so I brought you what I could. The loaf was fresh this morning, as was the mutton, the cheese is goat, though where the hell the kitchens got it from I don’t know. I also have a flask of wine, it’s a watered down Dornish Red, though I couldn’t tell you if it tastes nice or not, all of it just tastes like vinegar to me.”

He handed the food and drink over, and after a moment of dignity, Arthur Dayne fell on the food like a ravenous man, which he probably was in fairness, and when he stopped eating he seemed to recompose himself and drink the wine more slowly, and after he swallowed the first mouthful he nodded to Petyr.

“You have my thanks Lord Petyr, you were correct that I have not been particularly well fed. The wine may not be the best, but I will accept it graciously. I must admit I was resigned to receiving no visitors, not even my surviving “brothers” have come to visit me. That you of all people would come was not a thought that had crossed my mind.”

Arthur put a very dry tone on the word “brothers”, but otherwise his tone was genial and polite.

“Well Ser Arthur, I will not pretend I did this for altruistic reasons. We fought, I shot you, you maimed me, but that is in the past and I hold no grudge over it. The reason I am here is twofold, the first is to fulfil a request, your sister asked me to write to her about your condition, and while I’ll spare her the details” he gestured to the cell around them both “I’ve put off doing so for a while now. The second is that I have a question, and I think only you can answer it, well you or someone many many leagues away anyway.”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed at that, and face became more of a mask, but he nodded at Petyr after a moment.

“Ask away Lord Petyr.”

Petyr had thought about how best to broach this topic, but just going straightforward seemed like the best one.

“Your hand. We all saw you get burned by Dawn, I want to know why?”

Arthur inhaled sharply, and looked down at his right hand that his left had started to massage. After a long pause he looked up at Petyr and spoke slowly, like a man divulging information he did not particularly want to share.

“Dawn has been in my families possession for millennia, ever since the star fell that gave it the metal it was forged from. There are a lot of stories and legends attached to it, and I had assumed that most of them were just tales. The only one I had known before was true, was that Dawn chooses its wielder. My older brother could never use it, it would slip from his grip, it would become heavy, it would throw him off-balance. It is magic, of course, but I assumed it was only slightly so.”

Petyr had gathered that there must be some sort of “magic” at play, as while Westeros was a fairly low-fantasy place, the Great Evil Popsicle, the Three-Eyed Raven, Melisandre and y’know, the freaking DRAGONS meant that magic at least existed in some capacity.

“Well one of the tales I was told was of “The Fallen Morning”. Essentially Lord Petyr, the tale was a cautionary one that any who wields it and has the blood of a Dayne on the sword, loses the ability to wield it forever. In the tail an ancestor of mine uses Dawn on his own brother, and in turn the sword maimed him and would never again return to his grip. It appears that it was more than a simple tale Lord Petyr, as my own hand can show.”

He had gone back to looking at his hand then, and his voice was bitter.

“Wait a moment, are you telling me that from between when Howland subdued you, and when we went to leave Starfall, you didn’t once touch the sword?”

“No I did not. Lord Howland carried it to Starfall and presented it to my brother. I was in my own home, even if under somewhat unusual circumstances, so I saw not the need to arm myself.”

“I see.” Petyr said the words slowly, though honestly he was probably slightly more confused than he was when he started. The only thing he had really gleamed was that the sword had both a mind of its own, and somehow the magic reacted to the blood of a specific family.

“But you did not spill the blood on the sword Ser Arthur, I did, when I, well, you know…”

Petyr shrugged as his voice trailed off and Arthur surprised the hell out of him by laughing. It was a short laugh, but it still struck Petyr as unexpected.

“By the Gods Lord Baelish, I thank you for that. No, I did not spill Dayne blood on the sword, but the bolt you shot wounded me and caused me to bleed on it as I dropped it. I shudder to think what would have happened if I tried to pick it up then. It may be a bit of a literal interpretation of the story, but it appears that to Dawn, it does not matter, blood is blood.”

A silence returned to the cell after that, as Petyr mulled over the information he had been given and Arthur took another slow drink from the skin that Petyr had brought him, and after he did he spoke softly.

“Do you know anything about my trial Lord Baelish?”

“Not much I’m afraid” Petyr had been prepared for this topic “only that you, Ser Jaime and Ser Selmy will be tried together tomorrow. You won’t be allowed trial by combat, the Lord’s Paramount agreed and the King will pass sentence himself. Outside of that, I know nothing.”

Arthur nodded slowly at that, and if he was perturbed at being denied his right to trial by combat, he didn’t react. For the sake of political expedience, all the members of the Kingsguard, and Rhaegar, were not being allowed to choose a trial by combat, they would simply be informed that as prisoners taken in battle, they were not entitled to it. The exception of course was Ser Jaime, but if anyone thought he was going to be in any way punished, they would have had to be deaf and blind.

The awkward silence returned then, and Petyr cleared his throat. He had no further questions, and while he disagreed with the man for the things he had assisted in, he still felt a certain degree of compassion for a man who seemed remorseful and had been treated as poorly as he was. He opened his mouth to say something, but no words were forthcoming, so instead Petyr nodded at the man and knocked on the cell door to leave.

***

The throne room was packed to capacity. The other trials that had come and gone had been fairly limited affairs as far as attendance was concerned. Typically they had been overseen by Tywin as the Hand, though a couple of cases of houses from the Stormlands had been overseen by Stannis before he had departed with the Royal Fleet. Today though, the trials would be overseen by the King himself, and Petyr had manged to get a premium spot to watch the events by tagging along with the Blackfish, who was in the general audience and not seated with the Lords Paramount and families. There had been some wrangling over numbers in the box, and Brynden had volunteered to relinquish his seat so that Oberyn and Elia could sit together, although he had told Petyr it was mainly because his “arse was stiff as a rock from all these damned chairs.”

The general hubbub of conversations from dozens of groups was rather loud, and as he looked around Petyr allowed his eye to wander over the worthies that were seated near the Iron throne itself. The various Lords Paramount were seated in a box with their families, though there was a couple of exceptions, as Tywin and Jon were both sat before the throne with the other members of the Small Council that were present. An empty chair represented Stannis, who as Master of Ships was not present, and another empty chair represented the Master of Laws as a suitable individual had not yet been picked, the seat of Grand-Maester Pycelle was also empty, but only because he was attending to the King. The fifth chair of the small council was occupied, and Petyr did his absolute best to not stare at Lord Varys. The bald eunuch had reappeared while Petyr was off gallivanting to Dorne, and had somehow simply resumed his previous position. He didn’t know how, of course, but it appeared that while somethings were different, some things stayed the same. Petyr moved his attention to the actual throne itself, a monster of a thing compared to the one from the TV show as reality didn’t seem to simply have to conform to a HBO budget, and was starting to try and count the number of swords when trumpets blared and all the people sitting stood as Robert Baratheon, trailed by Grand-Maester Pycelle, entered the room from an antechamber and made his way towards the throne.

It was the first time Petyr had seen Robert in a long time, and it was clear as day that Bobby B’s condition was not improving. He looked tired, his eyes sunken in his face, and while he was managing to walk unaided, Petyr though he saw some weakness to the older man’s gait, a slight bit of wobbliness as he lowered himself on to the throne.

“Be seated.”

His voice sounded a bit raspy, but it was still strong and as the various people with seats, with the exception of Lord Tywin, sat down, Robert turned to look at Tywin and nodded. At the signal Tywin bowed slightly, and turned to face down the length of the room.

“Bring forth the prisoners.”

His voice carried over the silence of the hall, and the two goldcloaks at the door opened it as a dozen more goldcloaks led the three men forward through the path dividing the standing crowd. There was no booing, no name calling, no reaction but silence as the crowd watched Barristan Selmy, Jaime Lannister and Arthur Dayne walk the length to before the King. The three stopped at a pre-determined distance, and Tywin returned to his seat as the King spoke then.

“Ser Barristan Selmy, step forward.”

The sentences were to be handed down based in order of seniority, so Barristan, Arthur then Jaime. None of the three was wearing their uniforms as members of the Kingsguard, they instead wore simple matching doublets and breeches, and while Arthur had been kept in the Black Cells, someone had at least allowed him to wash himself before today.

“Ser Barristan” Robert began as Selmy took the step forward “you appear before us today due to your service to the reign of the mad king Aerys. During that time you served as a member of his Kingsguard during which time you took up arms against us and forces loyal to us before being taken at the Red Fork. Do you contest this?”

“No Your Grace. I did as ordered, nothing more.”

“We recognize this. We also recognize that you are reported to have discharged your office with grace and dignity. However we also feel that no man who has raised arms against us once can be in turn trusted to defend us, thus our sentence to you is as follows, you are relieved of your oaths of service as a member of the Kingsguard. You shall retain your knightly stylings, and you shall be allowed to take up arms in defence of yourself against enemies of the Crown. Any income you are entitled to will be forfeit to the crown for a period of five years, and you shall be confined to the lands of your brother Lord Selmy for a period of five years unless summoned by Royal decree.”

“Your mercy is recognized your Grace, I thank you.”

Robert nodded in acknowledgment of Barristan’s statement, and as the oldest former member of the Kingsguard was led away by two Goldcloaks, there was a murmuring in the room. Petyr didn’t join in, but his mind was already racing as it tried to figure out how Barristan’s fate could be so much different than the other one he had known. He was still thinking when the murmuring ended and Robert spoke again, this time his voice containing a certain degree of the rage he was known for.

“Ser Arthur Dayne, step forward.”

Arthur stepped forward, and the whole room seemed to lean slightly forward to be closer to what was unfolding before them.

“Ser Arthur” Robert started, his voice flatter and harder now, the raspy element of his voice disappearing and a something resembling how he used to be taking shape in his features as they flushed “you appear before us today due to your service to the reign of the mad king Aerys, and your personal service to the mad prince Rhaegar. During your that time, you assisted in the corruption of Lady Lyann Stark, our betrothed, assisted in the kidnapping an imprisonment of Lady Lyanna Stark. Assisted in the rape of Lady Lyanna Stark, took up arms against our most loyal Lords Paramount, and slew a number of loyal and noble men who were acting in the right. Do you contest this?”

The room seemed to lean closer again, and Petyr looked towards Lyanna and saw that her face now looked as if it was chiselled from stone, Neds also seemed the same.

“No your Grace, I do not. I did as ordered, nothing more.”

“We recognize this, however the egregiousness of your crimes goes beyond the realm of forgiveness. You are henceforth stripped of your knightly title, you are sentenced to death, and you shall be escorted from here to a place of execution and hanged by the neck until dead, as you are denied the right to beheading that your birth should allow. May the Gods have pity on your soul.”

The golkdcloaks moved to beside Arthur, and the murmuring began, but before Arthur could move two steps, a voice called out loudly over the crowd.

“Your Grace, please, I beg you reconsider.”

For a moment, Petyr wondered why exactly everyone was staring at him, and then he realised that voice had been him. He hadn’t planned this, hadn’t wanted to do this, but he couldn’t stomach the idea of Arthur Dayne dying, no matter his crimes, not when he thought of the person he actually was speaking for.

There was silence as everyone stared at him, but Robert Baratheon spoke slowly.

“The Crown recognizes Lord Petyr Baelish. Speak Lord Petyr, but be quick about it.”

“Your Grace, I have no love for this man, nor do I think he innocent of the crimes he is charged with. But even as this man has taken much, including mine own eye, I beg you Your Grace to not simply waste someone of his martial abilities so frivolously by ending his life. Allow him serve the remainder of his days in defence of all of us, as a proper punishment and to instil in him the true meaning of what it means to swear an oath to defend. Let him take the Black.”

Petyr did his best to ignore the various stares, as he locked gaze with Robert Baratheon. He couldn’t believe he was doing this, but gods dammit he felt in his heart it was right, he only hoped Ned and Lyanna would forgive him. After a moment Robert turned to look at Arthur Dayne, and then spoke.

“This lord” he gestured towards Petyr “a man who has, during the time of his service to see the end of the mad kings reign, acted with honour and virtue has spoken on your behalf. We would still rather see you hang, but he speaks fairly. Will you accept the Black, to join the Nights Watch and defend the realms of men for the rest of your days, or will you hang?”

There was another moment, one where thankfully everyone stopped staring at Petyr, and then Arthur spoke.

“I shall accept your gracious offer Your Grace, and join the Night’s Watch. With hope, I may yet redeem myself there.”

The murmuring returned as Robert simply grunted and waved his hand at the goldcloaks, he then gave Petyr a pointed look, and Petyr shrank back to his previous position. He risked a quick glance at Ned and Lyanna, and both were staring at him, their expressions indecipherable. He then risked a glance at Jon Arryn, whose expression was even more enigmatic. He felt a sharp jab in his left rib and then the Blackfish whispered fiercely in his ear.

“You and I need to have a damned long talk about your propensity towards idiocy.”

Petyr decided that discretion was the better form of valour, and said nothing back, though he did start massaging the spot where the Blackfish had elbowed him. The murmuring subsided again as Robert began to speak.

“Barring any more interruptions” he stared at Petyr again, his voice more like it used to be, before shifting his attention “Ser Jaime Lannister, step forward.”

Jaime stepped forward, and Petyr looked past him to watch Tywin. He was pretty sure he could guess what was going to happen, he had meddled too much in Jaime’s life for it to turn out the same, and he reckoned if anything was going to be worth watching here, it would be the Old Lion.

“Ser Jaime, you appear before us today due to your service to the mad king Aerys. However, you also stand before us today as the man who slew the mad king, an action you did not carry out lightly but to save the lives of thousands of people who doubtless would have been killed in his mad plot to burn this noble city to the ground. You broke your oaths, and in the most egregious way possible, but in doing so you reconciled your situation with you most base oaths, those being your oaths of knighthood. As such we have decided that you will be honourably discharged of your oaths as a member of the Kingsguard. You may retain your knightly title and stylings, and carry with you the grateful thanks not only of your monarch, but of the people of King’s Landing itself.”

“I thank you Your Grace for you merciful decision, but I must ask if there is any way I could resume my previous post?”

There was a minor shocked reaction to the crowd, and Petyr saw the well trained mask on Tywin’s face slip for just a moment, and fury lay underneath as the thing he wanted most, Jaime, was trying to escape his grasp again.

“No Ser Jaime, there is not. The Kingsguard will not be reformed, I would rather a new institution without any taint take its place at a later date.”

That caused a much louder shocked reaction in the crowd, and even Petyr felt his eye widen. Now that was unexpected, and judging from the Small Council’s reactions, not even they had known this was coming.

“SILENCE!” Robert roared at the crowd, and immediately fell into a coughing fit as the Grand-Maester moved to his side, the room silencing in the wake of his outburst though. After a few moments of coughing, Robert waved Pycelle off and stared at the crowd again, composing himself before he spoke.

“We realise that such a decision is unorthodox, but it is ours to make. Now for the final business that I wish to address. Our betrothed, Lyanna Stark” he gestured towards where the lady in question was speaking “has been returned to us. As such we seek to proceed with the marriage ceremony as swiftly as possible. To this end, we are suspending the trial of the mad-prince Rhaegar by one week, as to make way for the marriage to happen three days hence.”

Silence greeted that declaration, and Robert rose from the throne and left towards the same antechamber he had come from, Grand-Maester Pycelle again trailing him, and as he left, the order in the room fell apart into dozens of individual conversations. As useful as this sort of thing was for picking up tidbits of information, Petyr wasn’t really in the mood to stay and mingle, if nothing else he felt like escaping the extremely awkward conversations that were bound to come out of his interjection on Arthur Dayne’s part.

***

There was a storm coming in off the Narrow Sea, Petyr was watching it come as he leaned against the masonry of the Red Keep, he had found this particular spot during his investigation of the Red Keep, and it was a secluded spot with a great view of the sea, almost built over it as it was a sheer drop down to the rocks and water. It had obviously been damaged at some point in the past, and the stonework that had replaced the damaged part had not been done particularly well, the mortar had started to wear away and the stones were not particularly well fitting.

‘The advantages of being a bricklayers son’ he thought to himself ‘I may never have been able to build a wall, but at least I can tell a shite mortar job when I see one.’

He snorted at that. He was the son of bricklayer, in one sense, the son of the son of a sellsword in another. Such was the duality of Baelish, two different sets of everything shoved in to one body, at least at this point in his life he had managed to merge the two together, and the evil goatee part of him hadn’t haunted his dreams in a long while now. He was fine with that, he was fairly certain that part of him had made its point and left, and for now he could enjoy the view, arms tucked into his sleeves against the growing chill of the evening.

“A beautiful view is it not? Almost makes one forget the world behind them.”

Petyr had expected the voice, but he still jumped a little bit in surprise before turning to look at its owner.

“Lord Varys.”

Varys bobbed his head in a slight bow of acknowledgment.

“Lord Petyr. I must admit, I would have thought a man such as you would be busy mingling with the gathered worthies in the throne room. Your stunt with Arthur Dayne should have made you a figure of interest.”

Petyr shrugged, he didn’t bother untucking his arms, before he spoke.

“There are times to gather information Lord Varys, and there are times to reflect on it. Besides, when you are the topic of conversation, you don’t need to learn the details, just the general opinion, and that forms after the fact.”

“And you feel you will be the topic of conversation?”

“The minor lord who dared interrupt and challenge the King? Of course. Though I will admit that the ending of the Kingsguard will put a slight dampener on things.”

“So you did what you did as a stunt then? An action to gain notice?”

Petyr gave Varys a slight smile before he responded.

“You might say that, I couldn’t possibly comment.”

It was a lie, of course, Petyr hadn’t planned it, but it was serving his purposes to make Varys think he had, and the answering smile from Varys at the use of the old House of Cards line was probably a mirror of the one Petyr was trying to manage.

“An interesting response, an interesting response indeed. Tell me though, why? I know it is unbecoming to simply ask directly, but I must know what drives the man who nearly died at the hands of one man to serve his brother so diligently.”

“I am determined to be the best version of myself that I can be my lord. To do that, I must advance my lot in life, and to that end I will take advantage of the chaos and madness of the last few years. My holdings are meagre, but I would hardly be the first person in history to turn such a meagre start into a massive gain. And with that gain, I can do a lot, and hopefully a lot of that will be good, though some I have no doubts will be the opposite.”

“Ah” Varys said as he moved to stand beside Petyr at the wall, it was a narrow spot where they stood, “you served Ned Stark because you saw an opportunity to take. And now you act as best to gain your own notoriety.”

“Roughly speaking, yes. Though I also hope that I can do enough good to prevent this kingdom from falling apart, to make it stronger, and make it better able to face any threats to it.”

Varys looked out to the sea then before he spoke, he gazed at the rapidly approaching storm clouds before he spoke again.

“A simple goal then I suppose. And you feel that you are the best to do it, a strange bit of egotism that is it not?”

“Oh it is Lord Varys, I am after all but a man. But allow me to ask you something if you will.”

Petyr untucked his arms, gesturing back towards the rest of the Red Keep with his left hand.

“How long has Pycelle been poisoning the King?”

Varys looked at him then sharply, the genial expression gone off his face, instead replaced by the true face of the Spider, cold and calculating.

“I mean” Petyr said again waving his hand at the throne “His Grace has been doomed ever since Tywin was able to secure the betrothal of Stannis to Cersei, and Pycelle for all his appearances is a sharp witted puppet of Tywins. It doesn’t take a genius to put things together does it.”

He added another flourish of his hand to punctuate the point, and Varys stared into his face for a long moment, clearly re-evaluating Petyr before he turned his face back out to the water.

“Oh ever since Pycelle has been caring for his wounds. The poison is slow acting, and at this point even if he stopped, His Grace would still die. As you say, he was doomed from the moment he came betwixt Tywin and his goal.”

“I see. A shame then Lord Varys, a shame, and most disappointing.”

It was then Petyr moved his right arm as fast as he could, and the dagger found purchase where he wanted it to, just below Varys’s left ribcage, driving into his lung. He had purchased the dagger and its twin in Plankytown, both were long stilettos, but he had kept the fact he had bought two secret as best he could. He had kept the blade up his right sleeve while he used his left hand as a misdirection gesturing with it, and considering he had the other dagger on his hip at his left, sheathed and away from his hand, he had hoped Varys would be off guard.

Varys was quick, but the blow had driven the wind from him, and Petyr didn’t give him time to react, he pushed into him with all his might, and after nearly two years of constant combat training and a bit of growth in height, he had a solid body to slam into the Spider. The wall crumbled as Varys crashed into it, as Petyr had planned, he had spent the last few days in this exact spot, carefully weakening the mortar even more until the stones of the wall gave just enough to indicate they were weak without obviously falling off. Varys disappeared over the edge, and Petyr started breathing hard. He pitched his bloody dagger as hard as he could towards the water and then crouched beside where the wall had collapsed, he then took a deep breath placed his arms against the rougher parts of stone, and dragged them as hard as he could across them, ripping both cloth and flesh as he did.

That done, he moved with swift purpose into the corridor and towards the nearest servant he could see.

“For the love of the gods” he cried, letting the panic he felt seep into his voice “please help me, Lord Varys has fallen, the wall collapsed, I tried to save him, I tried to save him.”

The servant stared at him wide-eyed, he was sorry for the poor girl, and she was just a girl, but he needed to be as manic as possible to sell this. This murder had been planned for months now, as he had been sure Varys would reappear, and he was probably the greatest threat to the stability of the realm that Petyr could deal with. Littlefinger would never be the same, Joffrey was hopefully headed off at the pass, that had left Varys and whatever game he was playing, and if he had learned anything from his failure to properly resolve the Tower of Joy, it had been that he needed to start being a _lot_ more ruthless.


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24,**

**Petyr XVIII**

It was the day after he had murdered Varys, and Petyr lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, and letting his mind race. He wasn’t thinking of anything in particular, but he hadn’t been able to get any sleep as he had just murdered someone in cold blood. Luckily, he supposed, while there had been a few suspicious glances from servants, and then the goldcloaks, and then from John Arryn and Tywin Lannister, all such suspicions tended to melt away once the head mason of the castle confirmed that yes, that section of wall had been damaged in the past, and yes, the quality of the masonry there left much to be desired. The fact that Petyr was also wounded, and wounded on the rocks in a way so as to support his “I tried to grab on and pull him but I just couldn’t” story, meant that most suspicions were gone, but he didn’t doubt that there would be a cloud over this over his head for a long time. He was, in a twisted way, proud of himself for managing to return to his chambers and bed without totally freaking out, as adrenaline and such started to wear off and what he had done began to loom harder in his mind. He knew it _had_ to be done, but that didn’t mean he was suddenly comfortable with the fact that he was, in fact, capable of committing murder.

Sure, he was in Westeros, and not having to kill people appeared to be rarely the solution to any problems, but that didn’t make swallowing the fact any easier. It also didn’t help that while he was able to put a lot of time and thought into the action, he hadn’t exactly thought about what would happen next. Presumably, someone else would get made the new Master of Whispers, and hopefully whoever it was wouldn’t turn out to be a sneaky conniving son of a bitch who was running their own angle to bring down Westeros, or whatever end goal Varys had been working towards. But the issue that wracked him was whether or not he had crossed some sort of moral event horizon, if he was now forever damned and condemned. Was his action, his ruthless action done for the right reason, truly worth what he had done? He didn’t know, he wouldn’t know, and he honestly didn’t have time to spend lying on bed moping about it for the rest of the day, or week, or however long it would have taken him to stop. He needed to be up, he needed to be moving, he needed to be seen out and about, suitably upset at what had happened, but not suffering from obvious murderers guilt, nor so blasé about the whole affair so as to appear as if he was trying too hard to be innocent. Besides, he had some bridges to mend, or at the very least, to do a decent structural survey on.

And on the cheerful thought of bridges collapsing, Petyr dressed himself before heading towards the Stark apartments.

***

A fair amount of the Stark retinue, being as they had been along with the army, had already left for home. The war was assumed to be safely over after all, the Targs were captured or stuck on a rock where hopefully they were accepting the terms offered to them and Stannis wouldn’t have to capture Dragonstone. Hopefully. However a group of bodyguards had been retained, dressed in the grey of House Stark, and as Petyr approached the suit of apartments that had been handed over to Ned and Lyanna, they were watching him in an admirable imitation of the creature that emblazoned their armor. Petyr did his best to let it not bother him, he had after all up until rather recently been considered as much a guard of House Stark as the men now between him and Ned, and on any other day he probably would have succeeded. Today though, he could feel his own anxiety racketing up a few notches as he approached, and he was glad he had decided to come completely and utterly unarmed.

“Morning gentlemen” Petyr said, trying to but not quite managing to sound jovial and not intimidated “is Lord Eddard up yet? I need to speak with him please.”

The two guardsmen looked at him some more, but after a moment one turned to the other and a silent conversation occurred between the two and one of them gave a slight shake and moved through the door into the chambers themselves, leaving Petyr and the first guard alone. He stood there, matching the guards attention with a plastered on smile, as again he tried to appear not intimidated by the cold shoulder reaction he was getting, and after what felt like roughly a year, the door opened again and the guard who went inside reappeared.

“Lord Baelsih, Lord Eddard and Lady Lyanna will see you now.”

Bugger.

He had been hoping to get Ned alone, as Lyanna, no matter the side of her he saw and talked to in Plankytown, clearly had an impulsive streak considering her whole “let’s name my son as legitimate in front of everyone at the first opportunity” stunt from a few days ago. Instead he mentally squared his shoulders and proceeded in past the guard in to the lion’s den. Well, wolves den really.

He was smiling at his own stupid joke when he came upon Ned and Lyanna in the middle of breakfast. He sketched a quick, slight bow to the pair if them, and his stomach made him aware that it was still empty, which lead to his brain suddenly realising it hadn’t had any sleep in a while, and Petyr had to fight down a sudden wave of fatigue. That meant that instead of giving the proper and eloquent greeting he had planned, his words ran into each other a bit and slurred so that he wound up saying.

“G’orning Nedanna.”

The pair just looked at him, and Petyr felt heat rising in his cheeks as he cleared his throat and spoke again.

“Let’s try again. Good morning Ned, Lady Lyanna. I apologise for disturbing your breakfast, if I’d known I’d have come back later.”

Lyanna said nothing, her face was hard as she stared at him, which he did not blame her for in the slightest, but while Ned’s face was firm, there wasn’t any steel to his gaze as his hopefully still friend nodded back slightly and gestured at a chair at the table they were sat at.

“Please Petyr, be seated. Willem tells me you wanted to speak with me.”

Petyr flashed him a brief smile of thanks and sat down, his legs suddenly feeling a lot heavier than they had. He was about to speak when his stomach growled, loudly. There was a brief silence, and then Ned started to laugh. It wasn’t a sudden thing, it was more of a slow snicker that grew in to a proper laugh and it was infectious as Petyr joined in. Lyanna was also laughing, but she was also the first to sober back up, her face slightly more relaxed than it was when Petyr walked in, but still not exactly friendly.

“Petyr, please, have a wedge. I think I know what you are here to discuss, and none of us need to do this on an empty stomach.”

Ned gestured to the plate of sandwiches, heavy on bacon with what looked like lettuce in the bread as well. _Someone_ had clearly come up with the BLT already, even if it didn’t necessarily include the T. He took a bite of the sandwich and it tasted like heaven, and when he had finished wolfing it down, he looked back to the pair and bowed his head again, this time in the genuine thanks of a hungry man.

“Thank you. I’d understand you not being particularly hospitable to me, given yesterday’s events.”

As he said that, any light mood in the room disappeared as the Stark siblings returned to looking at him with hard faces, they were serious now, and Petyr prepared himself mentally before he spoke.

“Ned” he said, then looked at Lyanna “Lyanna. I can understand perfectly why the pair of you might be willing to throw me into the deepest pit in the Seven Hells for what I did yesterday, but I would hope you would let me explain my action.”

“Lord Baelish, Petyr” Lyanna said, placing a hand on Neds' forearm before her brother could speak “I do not agree with what you did. I am angry at you for it. But for everything you’ve done for my brother, my son and I, you deserve that chance.”

She looked at Ned then, who gave her a slight smile and nodded to her before turning to Petyr.

“My sister speaks the truth. An uncomfortable truth, as even as much as I regard you as a friend, I agree with my sister in not being particularly happy with you interjecting on behalf of Arthur. But you have more than earned the right to explain yourself.”

Petyr took a deep breath then, sorting his thoughts out a bit more before he began, and as he spoke he began slowly and carefully.

“I do not disagree that Arthur deserves death for what he did. But what the King was doing was unjust. He should have been offered the chance to take the Black from the very beginning, simply sentencing him to hang without making that option available, it wasn’t right.”

Ned moved, as if preparing to say something, but he was cut off by Lyanna letting out a sharp bitter laugh before she spoke.

“Right.” Lyanna repeated, her voice again being as cold as chipped ice. “Arthur Dayne _definitely_ knows the meaning of the term “right”. After all that _bastard_ was in the right to hold me down for my “husband” to have his way with me.”

The tension in the room became a lot stronger, and Petyr realised he was going to need to switch tactics a little bit earlier than he had planned, so he shifted himself in his seat and took a deep breath, allowing his face to go expressionless.

“Well my lady, allow me to point out another fact about what I’ve done that doesn’t come from a self-serving positive position then.” He looked straight at her, and his own voice to him sounded dull and neutral as he spoke. Not disinterested, just detached from any emotion.

“Consider if you will this. You were taken away by your family, moved to the other side of the realm, and if you’d escaped it would have meant your almost certain death. Arthur Dayne has been taken from his family, will now be moving to the other side of Westeros from his home, and if he deserts, it will mean his almost certain death. In fact considering just how much of the North he would need to escape through, and how much I’m sure your brother’s vassals would love to get their hands on him, I’d say any chance of him not suffering a very slow and very painful death in the event of desertion is so remote as to be non-existent. And that is not including what might happen if Lord Bolton got his hands on him. Now tell me Lyanna, do you honestly want him to have suffered only a few moments? Or many, many more years?”

The two Starks stared wide eyed at him then. It had been one of Petyr’s thought exercises while trying to calm down from Varys, trying to rationalize why he interjected on Dayne’s behalf _without_ mentioning the Evil Slushie, and that had meant getting introspective and creative. He wasn’t too concerned about whatever Jon Arryn might say to him, at the end of the day, Jon was the one who was going to be stuck with Petyr once he’d seen the two Starks safely back to Winterfell, and Petyr didn’t doubt that he was going to come to rhetorical blows with Arryn sooner or later. He figured that appealing to justice, that stating Dayne should have been given the chance for the Black would flow with Ned, but with Lyanna he had figured he would be better to highlight the fact that a lifetime of service to the Night’s Watch was going to be a lot more miserable and terrible than a few moments of dancing the hemp fandango. A grim approach, but well, this was Westeros, and considering the reaction he had gotten, he had reckoned correctly as far as his audiences reaction was concerned.

“Petyr” Ned said, his voice soft with surprise “I hadn’t thought of that, nor that _you_ would think of that.”

“Ned, the bastard killed more than one man I was coming to see as a friend. He took my eye. And I’m not even going to start on the things he is responsible for with regards to Lyanna. Hanging would be too good for him. Hell, flaying would be too good for him. Let him suffer a proper misery, and one that will have him replaying his actions over and over in his mind for the rest of his days.”

He had kept his voice the same dull neutral tone, and as he spoke, he found that it wasn’t simply a matter of him thinking in terms of “how do I get these people to behave how I want” but was more strongly a reflection of how he genuinely felt. Arthur Dayne had been an accomplice to rape, or multiple rapes depending on how one looked at it. He had killed more than one person that Petyr _was_ starting to like. And he had taken something that belonged to Petyr, his eye. For all the good that the man as an individual may possess, for all the pity that Petyr had felt for him, Dayne still deserved much worse than death.

But still there was the other fact, the nagging voice in his head that pointed out that he hadn’t simply acted out of some self-righteous desire to see Arthur suffer the worst punishment imaginable. Nor had he acted out of a realisation that he could send a great warrior to the Wall and hopefully make the Night’s Watch into slightly more efficient cannon fodder. No, it was the voice that said that by keeping Arthur alive, he might have saved a second life as well. He didn’t know who the recesses of his mind were referring to, but the voice was there, and while quiet compared to the rage and panic of the other two, it was still clear to him.

It was then that he heard the sound of a baby crying, and Lyanna rose from the table towards an antechamber.

“She won’t have a wet-nurse” Ned said, his voice slightly gruff as he clearly tried to change the topic of conversation with all the grace of a dead giraffe “insists on feeding Jon herself. Robert said that if it made her teats bigger he wasn’t going to complain.”

Petyr felt his own eye open wider in surprise at that as he looked at Ned.

“So Robert knows about Jon then?”

“Aye. It wasn’t without some tension of course, but Lyanna made it clear to him that Jon was her son, and his father could burn for all eternity. Honestly I think Robert was slightly impressed at the variety of swear words Lyanna came out with. He’s not happy about it, of course, but considering Jon will be going back to Winterfell with me, that reassured him a bit. He’s even granted the patent of legitimacy, although we are not yelling that from the rooftops. Or in front of the stable hands anyway.”

Ned turned his head towards the room Lyanna had disappeared to when he said that, and said it with a chiding tone, and Petyr could just about make out a soft rebuke from the room in the form of a suggestion of Ned and fornication with himself, but without any real heat to it.

Petyr in turn just smiled at such a display of sibling love, before continuing to speak.

“So he is officially Jon Stark then?”

“Aye, Jon Stark of Winterfell. My Nephew, and when he gets to his majority I’m sure I’ll either find a keep for him somewhere or give him the opportunity to truly make himself into his own man.”

“And Lyanna is fine with her son going to Winterfell?”

A pained look crossed Ned’s face then, and his friend looked away for a moment before speaking in a quieter tone.

“She is not in love with the idea, what mother could be? But she knows I’ll raise the boy in love, and it is not as if she can never come and visit him.”

Petyr nodded then, it made sense to him after all, and he just sat in the chair in the Stark suite, feeling his eyes get heavier as the tiredness he felt started to catch up with him more.

“By the way Petyr, why are your arms bandaged?”

“Ah, that. I’m guessing you hadn’t heard then” Petyr said as he forced his eyes open again and looked at Ned “well it was like this…”

***

The day of the Royal Wedding arrived, and Petyr, while actually given a position above his station in the order of things, was actively dreading it. The last wedding he had attended had been Ned and Cat’s, and while he had needed to fudge it a bit, he had managed to actually produce gifts for the two. This one though, he was basically fecked. He couldn’t just do another song, as much as he would like to, and his funds situation was somewhat dire. He could probably have hit Ned up for a loan, or if he was really desperate, sold his body to Oberyn Martell, but neither option really appealed. So instead he was doing his best with what little he had, and trying desperately not to focus on the fact that the groom would probably be dead within a month. The Spider had claimed that Pycelle was poisoning Robert, whether it was a true confirmation or if it had been a ploy to play to Petyr’s assumptions, he still wasn’t sure. But considering the state of the body that had been recovered from among the rocks and surf, he couldn’t exactly ask Varys to clarify the situation.

Petyr still had his suspicions of course, it would hardly be the first time he had seen Pycelle poison Robert Baratheon, and it would be perfectly in character for Tywin to order it done. The problem was though, that Petyr lacked evidence, and without it, there was no way he could get an investigation going. Even then, if he started such an investigation Tywin might just decide to “take care” of Pycelle to avoid himself being implicated, simply fake up some documents stating Pycelle was still loyal to the Targs and no-one would look twice. Much worse though, Tywin might decide to “take care” of the annoying upstart who was responsible for shining a light on his plan, and considering Petyr’s own actions, it wouldn’t exactly be difficult for a dedicated assassin to stick a knife in his ribs. Either way, Petyr would be on Tywins radar as a threat, and Petyr wanted to avoid that until he absolutely had to. The problem with that though, was he needed to reconcile himself with the fact he was essentially sentencing a man to death. He could possibly have mentioned something to Howland, or hell even to Oberyn, but Petyr had no idea what type of poison was being used, how much was being used, or if even the poison would be viewed as poison and not simply as appropriate “medication”. It was enough to drive a man to drink, but Petyr was trying to avoid that, lest he find himself at the bottom of a bottle for the rest of his life.

The situation would mean that Stannis would be King, and while Stannis was a lot less humours, and a hell of a lot more strict than Robert, Petyr was pretty sure that Stannis would actually put some effort in to running the Kingdom. Or at the very least, would make whatever shape it would take when the horse-trading was done stick. Granted, Robert might have been more dedicated to running the Kingdom if he was paired with Lyanna, Lyanna definitely had the spirit to tackle him. But that would probably last until the first time that Robert raised a hand to his wife, as the effect that would have on Lyanna would probably not be pretty in the slightest. Maybe he wouldn’t have raised a hand, maybe he would, either way, Petyr doubted he would ever know. No. Instead, regardless of all the things that had changed because of him, he would still have to deal with Queen-

“Bollocks.” Petyr said as he came around a corner on his left and collided with a solid mass. He didn’t quite hit the ground, but he had to flail to keep himself upright, and wound up resting his hand on something that felt smooth, but definitely wasn’t a wall, more like silk to be honest, and slightly warm. He looked up to see what his hand had landed on, and wound up flailing again as Cersei Lannister stared at him. It wasn’t a death stare, he’d have probably gotten that if his hand had landed somewhere other than her shoulder, and this time he didn’t quite succeed in keeping his balance. But luckily a pair of strong hands got a hold of him and helped him out.

“Lord Baelish” came the cheerful and clearly bemused voice of Jaime Lannister, the solid mass that Petyr realised he’d collided with “I know men have a tendency to fall for my sister but this is ridiculous.”

Petyr stared at Jaime then as he stood up proper.

“Ser Jaime, Lady Cersei. My apologies on my intrusion on you, I just have a little bit of difficulty with regards to things on my left.”

“Perfectly understandable Lord Baelish” Cersei replied, her face now full of courtly charm and politeness “I take no offence to your manner, after all you were simply a maimed man acting on instinct.”

“I’m glad you see it that way my lady, I wouldn’t want to give offence.”

Cersei bobbed her head at that, and Petyr realised that Jaime was back to standing beside her, having helped Petyr. Knowing the exact formula of the likely math that would come from Jaime and Cersei being together, especially as they were in a quieter part of the Red Keep that Petyr had been haunting to avoid the wedding preparations, Petyr cleared his throat and started to think of what the hell he could do to get away from them.

“It is fortuitous that I run in to you actually Lord Petyr.” Jaime said with a smile on his face, one that Petyr realised was genuine, and a brief flash of annoyance went across Cersei’s face, doubtless at the fact that Petyr was between the two doing their favourite twin activity, and Jaime was encouraging him to continue to cock-block them.

“Oh, how so?” Petyr asked, not wanting to be there as much as Cersei doubtless didn’t want him to be there.

“I was wondering if you had given any thought to the issue of your knighting.”

Petyr’s earlier exclamation reverberated louder in his own head and he realised too late that he was now in a protocol minefield. Ideally he wanted, if he _had_ to go through with it, to have the Blackfish do it. Part of him had some fairly strong paternal feelings to the older man, and the rest of him just liked him for being the only person that wasn’t either crazy or angry at him since he woke up. But there was politics at play, and he really was starting to hate that expression.

Denys Arryn, the heir presumptive to the Vale, no matter how many heads Jon Arryn might have to bang together to make sure no-one thinks of questioning it, had expressed an interest in it, and he would be, if Petyr lived through the next twenty or so years, his future liege lord. Jaime had expressed an interest, and considering he was currently the OG example of “Knightly Virtue” throughout the Seven Kingdoms, not to mention Tywin’s son and heir to the Westerlands, turning down such an offer would be difficult. _Someone_ who definitely was not Howland “Treacherous Bastard” Reed had brought the topic up around Oberyn, so now a Prince of Dorne had thrown his hat in the ring. Petyr was only grateful that the North didn’t really do knights otherwise he’d probably have Ned at it too. Essentially, it meant that all he was missing a Greyjoy, Tyrell and a Baratheon, and he’d have the whole set of “Families that are very powerful and a lowly lord such as yourself cannot turn down.”

And now the issue was right in front of him, so he swallowed and began to speak.

“No, I haven’t. Frankly I was more preoccupied with the judgment of Arthur Dayne and now the horrible events that happened to Lord Varys to really think on such a matter.”

If one squinted really hard, that statement could be regarded vaguely as the truth, and he was hoping that Jaime wouldn’t look too hard at it.

“Ah, I see. My apologies then my lord, I should have guessed you would have had other matters on the mind.”

Jaime actually managed to sound apologetic, and Petyr was fairly sure he wasn’t just putting on an act. So instead Petyr gave a shrug and spoke as apologetically as he could.

“I do apologize leaving you in a lurch over this Ser Jaime. But I promise you I will put some thought into the matter now. However if you’ll excuse me, I have to get ready for the wedding, a pleasant day to you both.”

Petyr bowed his head to the Blunder Twins and turned on them and proceeded to leave the two behind in a dignified manner that did not at all resemble Petyr putting distance between himself and themselves at a near jog.

***

The ceremony had been extravagant and opulent, which came as a shock to absolutely no-one of course. Lyanna had looked simply stunning in her wedding gown, and as Ned had led her down, Petyr saw that the scraggily growth that Ned had gained across the campaign was now neatly trimmed into something that could resemble a proper beard, if given a bit more time to fill out. Robert on the other hand, had looked like death warmed up, but still he had tried to put a brave face on things and act as happy and excited as he probably was, and Petyr did his absolute best to avoid looking at him lest his own guilt overwhelm him and he just accuse Tywin and Pycelle then and there. The gift giving had followed and much to Petyr’s relieve, he had discovered that he wasn’t required to publicly present his gift as the event was expedited a bit so as to get to the feasting, however there had been the matter of the couple giving out a few gifts themselves before the feast, and after the great and powerful worthies of Westerosi society were presented with loot from what had been the Targ’s own wealth, jewellery, daggers, a series of books donated to the Citadel along with some fragments of Dragon’s Eggs, that sort of thing. Petyr had half feared that they were going to be going through the full lists of who was getting what in the New Westerosi Order, but Robert must have read his mind on that regard.

“My lords and ladies” Robert said, hands held upwards as Mace Tyrell returned to his seat, an old valyrian steel razor as his new possession, “I assure you all that this will not be the end of our generosities with regards to the wealth ceded to us through the right of conquest. However I dare say we would all like to get to the food and drink, and not just spend the rest of the day waiting like beggars looking for alms. However, there is a few issues that need to be addressed now, and then I promise we will be on to the food. With that done, Lord Petyr Baelish, step forward.”

Petyr gulped, but he didn’t dare offer any offence by not getting up off his arse and getting in front of the King pronto. He approached Robert and took a knee before him, doing his best to not look at his pale face as Robert forced himself to stand. Then Petyr noticed that Ned, who had been seated beside the King on the opposite side from Lyanna, where Stannis would have been placed had he been here, and beside Renly, took something from a servant behind him, and then handed it to Robert. Petyr did his absolute best to stop his eye from bulging out of his head when he realised that what that something had been, was _Ice_. And Robert unsheathed the sword and brought the Valyrian steel blade to rest on Petyr’s right shoulder, an act that only somewhat terrified Petyr as he did not want to think what the blade would do if Robert’s hand slipped from weakness.

‘That could be why it _is_ Ice’ came a thought from the back of his mind ‘lighter than normal steel remember? The fact it looks impressive as hell probably is a happy side-effect.’

“Lord Petyr of House Baelish” Robert began, staring hard at him as he spoke, but without any heat or anger behind it “In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave.”

Robert moved the sword to Petyr’s left shoulder then.

“In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just.”

He moved again, placing the blade on the right shoulder, and Petyr could just see Robert’s face showing a slight bit of strain.

“In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent.”

The blade went again to the left, and Robert took a moment before speaking.

“In the name of the Maid, I charge you to protect all women. Arise a knight Lord Baelish, arise a man who has done all without charge, and now holds the title he deserves.”

Ice was passed back towards to Ned, and Petyr stood up then. There was a round of applause, somewhat louder and more enthusiastic from the Northern contingent than anywhere else, and for a moment, Petyr felt about ten feet tall, as he bowed from the waist, and returned to his seat. Robert had saved him from having to worry about the issue of being knighted, no-one could trump the King.

The feast had followed, and Robert managed to put in as good a show as he could to partake in the merriment beside his new wife, but Petyr could see from his seat, not at the Royal table but actually pretty close by, that Robert’s plate and goblet were both on the light side, and he was on what was probably weak beer as opposed to wine. Petyr was also trying to avoid indulging too much, but he still had drinks and food forced upon him and was doing his best to be polite. He was in the middle of a cup of Dornish red, when Robert called for silence again, and while it took a while for the revellers to stop, they did, and Robert waved towards Pycelle who stood up from the table to speak.

“Your Graces, my lords and ladies. I have just received a message via raven from his Lordship Stannis Baratheon. He informs me that Dragonstone has bent the knee to his Grace and that his fleet is already underway to return to King’s Landing.”

A cheering roar sounded throughout the hall at that, and Petyr joined in along with others. Hopefully that would mean that everything would be hunky dory and thinks would turn out alr-

“However, it would appear that while the garrison surrendered and has sworn fealty, former Queen Rhaella appears to have died in childbirth, and both the new child and Prince Viserys were nowhere to be found. Her body burnt on a pyre before his arrival, Lord Stannis states he thinks it likely they were smuggled out aboard ship to Essos.”

Petyr managed to just get a bread roll stuffed into his mouth before the loud “Well fuck” escaped from him. Gods dammit, he had hoped that things would go well and they could get Dany and Viserys back on the continent and far, _far_ away from any possible “hey let’s make dragons a thing again” adventure. The mood in the hall seemed to match his as quickly things turned sour before Jon Arryn stood up and held his hands up for attention.

“Your Grace, my lords. Let us not let this unfortunate news taint this joyous day. The last dregs of the Targaryen line flee like cravens, their hold on our land is gone, never to be returned. Let us instead have a toast, to peace! Long may it reign!”

The hall joined in, and the mood seemed to lighten again as Jon Arryn sat back down, and almost at once began conversing with Tywin Lannister. Petyr would have loved to be over hearing that conversation, but he could not. Instead he continued to pick away at the feast, although his appetite now was well and truly gone.

***

King’s Landing, even in light of all the misery and sorrow that had befallen it over the last year, had still managed to gain a festive air for the Royal Marriage. People had celebrated en masse, good wishes had called out, public feasting, generously subsidized by the Crown, had happened and all in all the city had a solid feel of goodwill and happiness. Petyr had enjoyed that feeling for the last few days, but if the King’s Landing had been enthusiastic about the wedding, it was as _nothing_ in comparison to the worrying eagerness that they had greeted today.

Rhaegar Targaryen had been sentenced to death by beheading. And no-one spoke up to say he should be given the chance to take the Black, in fact Petyr had, after a bit of stage managing and prodding by Jon Arryn who had stated he needed to “make up” for his outburst on Arthur Dayne’s behalf, had spoken out during the trial, but only after Robert called upon him to do so.

_“Lord Baelish, you interceded on behalf of Arthur Dayne when he was granted a similar sentence, would you again ask us to extend clemency to this creature?”_

_The crowd turned to look at him, with the exception of Rhaegar himself who hadn’t stopped staring at Lyanna from the moment he had entered the courtroom._

_“No your Grace. Arthur Dayne was still a man of sound mind, this wretch is nothing but a broken monster, and your punishment is too damned good for him by half!”_

His statement had drawn a cheer from the crowd at the time, and afterwards Jon Arryn had congratulated him on choosing the right sort of evocative language, he hadn’t been certain Petyr would but Petyr had begged the right to pick his own words. And now he sat in the box of worthies, behind and beside Jon Arryn who sat on the right of Robert. The crowd that had formed outside Baelor’s Sept was alive with energy, and as Rhaegar was led towards the block, the jeers, taunts, rotten vegetation and excrement, only some of it animal, began to be hurled at the former prince, but he managed to remain composed as he walked forward and stood beside the block.

On the stage that had been erected, the High-Septon called for quiet, and after a couple of moments the crowd was completely stilled as he faced Rhaegar and spoke loudly.

“Rhaegar Targaryen. Your body has been sentenced to death at this time and place, however you soul is not beyond saving if you would throw yourself on the mercy of the Seven. Do you wish to pray now?”

Rhaegar stared at the High-Septon, and after an eternity he shook his head in denial, and the High-Septon stood back on the stage as the jeers began again from the crowd. But the jeers ended shortly afterwards as the appointed executioner stood forward and held a hand up for silence.

The silence came at Ned’s bidding, and with his right hand rested on the pommel of Ice, he spoke.

“Rhaegar Targaryen. You are to die here at this time and place. If you have any final words you wish recorded, speak them now, for there will be no other chance.”

The former prince stared at Ned, and Petyr thought for a moment that there would be no final words, but then he opened his mouth.

“You are doomed” He spoke it softly, and then he seemed to struggle against his bonds “YOU ARE ALL DOOMED. HE BROKE EVERYTHING! EVERYTHING IS BROKEN! THE SONG HAS CHANGED! YOU ARE DOOMED, DOOMED, DOOMED, DOO-“

He broke off as one of the goldcloaks that had escorted him sapped him over the back of the head, and Rhaegar went limp as he was placed with his neck on the block. Ned turned to look then at Robert and Lyanna, and Petyr saw the slight nod Robert gave to him as Ned turned back around and brought Ice above his head in a two handed grip. And then after a moment of silence, the head of Rhaegar Targaryen landed in a basket.


	25. Chapter 25 - End of Part I

**Chapter 25**

**Petyr XIX**

The day the royal fleet arrived back in Kings Landing came and went, and while it was greeted with all the celebration that the city could muster, considering he had seen the same city celebrate the death of a former Prince only four days before, Petyr had come to the conclusion that Kings Landing these days was just taking any excuse it could to celebrate. Of course this time around it didn’t involve a near riot breaking out as people fought to dip pieces of cloth into the blood of a dead man for mementos, at least Petyr hoped that wouldn’t happen, but the night was still young. He shook himself at that morbid thought and turned his attention back to the celebrations underway in the Red Keep, and as he did he couldn’t help but think how a few changes could make a big difference.

Stannis hadn’t returned home a conquering hero, technically, but watching the large celebration being thrown would make anyone think he had. Robert, for reasons Petyr didn’t fully know outside of Lyanna prodding him over it, was doing everything he could to celebrate Stannis, as it was the first time the two brothers had seen each other since before the entire Rebellion had begun. It had begun with Robert, with a shaky voice, proclaiming to all that he couldn’t be more proud of his brother for holding Storm’s End, and when Stannis tried to play it off as him simply doing his duty, the older Baratheon had batted it away and instead said that Stannis had proven the worth of Storm’s End’s name. There had been more platitudes, and even young Renly had said a few words to his brothers credit, and honestly it seemed as if the Stannis who now sat at Robert’s right hand, couldn’t be any further from the Stannis of the show if he tried. It was simply heart warming, and even Cersei Lannister was managing to look happy, as she had only finally met her betrothed three hours before hand.

All of which meant Petyr wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of the hall and retreat to a nice quiet and dark room. Every day that Robert still lived, every day that Robert managed to struggle through life and be a king, every day that Robert secluded himself with his Small Council, every single day, was as another stab to Petyr’s gut. Petyr had had the mirror in his room, more a piece of polished bronze than an actual mirror, removed as he had found it very difficult to meet the eye of the man that looked back out from it. Part of him wanted to stand up, point to Pycelle and scream out his accusations right now, to maybe, just maybe, stand a chance of saving Robert’s life, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. So instead he sat, did his best to feign happiness with everyone else, ignored the head table, and waited for the moment he could escape. If he had kept Varys alive just a _bit_ longer, maybe he could have gotten the Spider to turn Crown’s evidence, but instead he had been as ruthless as he could and taken no chances, and any attempt to find something among the Spider’s own files had turned up nothing, or at least the Blackfish said so as he had been tasked with securing them, only mentions of Pycelle working minor miracles keeping the King alive in the face of such corruption of his wounds. Even finding out that much, without coming out and stating _why_ had involved Petyr being as vague as possible, lest he sick the Blackfish on the case and set things off that would see even more people dead.

Petyr took another drink from his cup, tried to avoid looking at the reflection in it, and took a deep breath. He really needed to get out of King’s Landing, it was starting to drive him up the wall, maybe he could just find a shack in the woods somewhere and wait for Ned to depart North and then he could join him. His thoughts of an arbour based relief disappeared however when Robert stood up again and motioned for quiet, and while Petyr _really_ didn’t want to look at the man he was slowly killing through inaction, he could no more look away from him than he could turn back the tide.

“My Lords and Ladies” Robert began as the hall went quiet, his voice sounding stronger than it had earlier in the evening “while We have chosen this occasion to celebrate the heroism and ability shown by Our brother Stannis, We also feel that this provides no better venue to inform you all of the accord reached between Ourselves, Our Small Council, and Our esteemed Lords Paramount. At the advice provided, and at the awareness of Our ascendency to the throne, We have decided that no longer may simple tradition be enough to define the relations between the Crown and Our nobility, instead a formalized agreement, outlining the rights and responsibilities within the relationship betwixt the Crown and Our Lords Paramount, has been made. This “Lords Charter” will be made available for you all to study, but the chief points are thus;”

Jon Arryn handed Robert a piece of parchment, and while the hall was stunned at this revelation, Petyr could see that the faces of those that it mainly dealt with, the Lords Paramount or their representatives, seemed decidedly nonplussed. The only exception being Stannis, whose expression had gone from its previous joyful shape to something more akin to what Petyr would expect from him in about twenty years.

“The first point, the Crown shall not order the execution of any nobly born person or persons, for any crime, without the consent of a quorum of the Lords Paramount, their representatives, or the express permission of the Lord Paramount to whom the accused is sworn to. This shall prevent any repetition of the horrid torture that befell Lord Rickard Stark and Master Brandon Stark from ever coming to pass again.”

Petyr saw Ned nod solemnly, and while there was some hushed whispering, it stopped before Robert spoke again.

“The second point, the Lords Paramount or representatives thereof, shall be required to visit upon the capital for a period of one month, during which time to serve to provide the Crown with advice and knowledge of their own realms. This advice will be used by the Crown and the Master of Coin, to set the tax rates for the regions as well as be used by the Crown and the Master of Laws to address any deficiencies within the law as it stands.”

This point drew almost no reaction, but Petyr realised that he was seeing the absolute most basic version of a parliament being created. Granted, it wasn’t really one, but by making it so that the Lords Paramount had a serious voice in advising in the drafting of laws and taxation policy, but it was a decentralization of power away from the crown none the less.

“The third point, the Crown shall, in light of the disbanding of the Whitecloaks, be entitled to raise and maintain a force of men, not exceeding fifteen hundred, to permanently guard the Crown, the Crownlands, and serve as a permanent Royal Army.”

There was some serious whispering after that, as while fifteen hundred men wasn’t a lot in Westerosi terms, it also wasn’t anything to sneeze at, and it gave the Crown a definitive force it could use without waiting on feudal levies or sellswords to be raised.

“The fourth major point, and the final one for this evening, lest We completely ruin the good cheer, is this. From this day forth, any person or persons found guilty of High Treason, regardless of wealth, title or station, will no longer be entitled to serve within the Night’s Watch as a means of circumventing the hangman’s noose. This loophole of justice is to be forever closed.”

***

King’s Landing had had two days to digest the full details of the “Lords Charter”, or as Petyr couldn’t help but think of it as, the “Magna Carta II, Magna Harder”. The details behind its existence had started to slowly come to light, at least in the circles Petyr was able to move in, and the picture it was painting wasn’t helping Petyr’s own disgust with himself. Robert was dying, Tywin Lannister and Jon Arryn could both see it, they could also see that, bar Robert somehow siring an heir with Lyanna, that meant that Stannis would be King. This had presented Tywin Lannister with an opportunity to properly codify what he had felt would have gone unsaid under Robert, mainly some restrictions on Royal power so that not only could the Mad King never happen again, but so that the Iron Throne’s power over the Lords Paramount would be reduced to a more comfortable level, which considering whose grandchildren would inhabit the throne came as more than a small surprise. Jon Arryn on the other hand, had argued in favour of a continuation of politics and the power of the throne remaining largely unchanged, indeed the only initial proposal he hadn’t objected to had been with regards to the issue of the execution of nobly born individuals.

The problem was though, that while Jon Arryn had the backing of the Crown and Ned, he was out numbered in general on the other fronts. House Tyrell, weary that a King Stannis would punish them even more, which considering the extent of their “punishment” was the provision of grain to the Stormlands for free for a period of ten years wouldn’t be hard to see, had backed Tywin up, hoping to not only earn some brownie points with the future Father-In-Law of the King but also to make it harder for the King to act against them, something which Petyr was certain hadn’t come from Mace’s head, unless he had a self-preservation streak that Petyr had not seen before. The Tulley’s had, counter to what the marriages of Lisa and Cat would suggest, also sided with Tywin on the issue, as Hoster saw an opportunity to consolidate even more power in his hands, essentially having his cake and eating it as well, relying on his daughters to repair the diplomatic damage over time. The Martells and Greyjoys had also backed Tywin, both essentially seeing the opportunity to shed more of the chains that had been placed on them, and with five of the seven kingdoms against him, Jon had been forced to acquiesce on points.

And so the Lords Charter had been signed by Robert, and it was binding for Robert and all his descendants within the Baratheon dynasty, meaning Stannis wouldn’t be allowed to just turn around as soon as the crown was on his head and change it, at least, not without a major shitstorm. Outside of the major points Robert had made, there were other sections, some were as minor as properly defining the laws with regards to Royal woodlands or the hiring of sellswords, others were fairly major themselves such as the clause stating that any found guilty of laying hands upon a nobly born woman, without the consent of their father or guardian, would be put to death or the Wall. There was also the clarification that the Goldcloaks did not count as part of the Royal Army for matters of their restriction of size, which Petyr found interesting, as well as the provision for the creation of a Royal Navy of “practicable size for the defence of the seas and coasts of all Westeros”. The lack of a limit on the navy, as well as other small loopholes Petyr was seeing, seemed to indicate that the Crown wasn’t losing as much power as it might first appear, and Petyr felt confident that such loopholes existed not because Tywin didn’t notice them, but because he wanted them there so that his grandchildren would be able to abuse them.

The Charter had also come with the formalised “Divisions of Lands” detailing what lands taken from families that had been on the wrong side, and hadn’t bent the knee quickly enough, were to be divided up amongst the families that had been on the winning side. The Tyrell’s had gotten off very light, as had the Reach in general, as while some small parcels had been seized and handed over to men that proven bravery and chivalry, essentially to become landed knights, the great houses of the Reach and their most valuable lands had been untouched, and outside of grain shipments to the Stormlands to repay damages made, they were almost unpunished. Dorne had received a similar punishment, however instead of any land divisions, the punishment instead had been an increase in taxes for a period of ten years, essentially some reparations.

The North was untouched, as were the Iron Isles and Westerlands, and instead the major changes had landed in the Riverlands, the Vale, the Crownlands and the Stormlands. In the Stormlands, the families that had dared to side with the Targaryens were stripped of everything but one tenth of their former lands and their family homes, with the exception of House Connington which was stripped down to one twentieth _of their former lands_. The lands in turn were distributed to various worthies who had proven their worth, including one Ser Davos Seaworth, and that a large proportion of those were people who had held positions of authority during the siege of Storm’s End was lost on few. Hoster Tully had wasted no time in the Riverlands using the opportunity afforded to him to settle grudges and seize lands. House Whent managed to hold onto Harrenhall, mainly due to nobody else wanting it, and the other houses that had backed the Targaryens lost much of their lands and were forced to pay serious reparations to Hoster. Myles Mooton, for his part in commanding the retreat from Stoney Sept, was sent to the Wall, which Petyr personally felt was a bit harsh.

The Vale, outside of Gulltown, had remained loyal to Jon Arryn which was not surprising given the man’s hold over his vassals, but House Grafton had dared to fight back, and so they were forced to pay for their transgressions. As much as Jon Arryn didn’t want to, it seemed that the Gulltown Arryns would be taking over much of the profitable aspects of the city, and while the Graftons weren’t losing everything, Jon Arryn had seized much of their land outside the city baring the lands that immediately bordered their own country home. Most of that land was already divided up among those that had served Jon Arryn well, though like in the Riverlands and Crownlands, it wasn’t all handed out yet. The Crownlands had seen the largest disruption as the majority of houses had backed the Targaryens, simply seizing all their lands and assets had been viewed as impractical and so Robert, at the advice of Jon and Tywin, had instead limited himself to a few “shows of strength” by targeting the houses known to be most loyal to the Targaryens for near total loss of assets, and leaving the others in place with minor fines and reparations and an implied warning along the lines of “step out of line and we’ll raise your home stone by stone.”

However while all these acts were dictating the futures of many men, high and low placed, Petyr found himself sitting in a tastefully styled antechamber, awaiting to hear his future. Ned was planning on departing in three days, and Petyr was due to go with him, to see Ned back safely to Winterfell and collect some of his possessions that wound up heading North with the main force, and with a firm deadline now in place, Jon Arryn had informed Petyr that they needed to have a little chat. Petyr was somewhat hopeful, considering the poor state of his own holdings, the signs to him seemed to point to maybe a return to his serving at the Eyrie’s court, granted that would mean dealing with Lysa on a regular basis, but maybe he’d be able to keep her as a friend and permanently dissuade her from any notions of an amours variety. Also Denys was a nice enough man, and it wouldn’t be the worst place in the world for him to plot and scheme a bit to try and get things in motion from when the shit hit the fan. The Blackfish, who had decided to start training Petyr again and mercilessly took advantage of Petyr being down an eye while doing so, had probed him as to whether he thought Jon was going to retain him in King’s Landing, but Petyr knew he was still too young for such a posting and would doubtless need a few years grooming before he could be allowed anywhere near high society. The fact he was physically seventeen years old, or was it eighteen now, either way, being physically below twenty and mentally somewhere in his forties, if he added the two ages he had possessed together, sometimes caught even him by surprise.

The door to Jon Arryn’s chambers opened, and a page in the colours of House Arryn appeared.

“My Lord Baelish” he said, his voice slightly squeaking as he spoke “Lord Arryn will see you now.”

Petyr rose and followed the boy into Arryn’s chambers, and after being shown to Jon Arryn himself, the page bowed and disappeared, indeed there was no servants in sight which spoke to the privacy of this meeting.

“Petyr” Jon Arryn said from behind his desk, looking up to meet Petyr’s eye “please take a seat.”

He pointed at a seat opposite the table and Petyr did just that, and then he looked at Jon Arryn who was studying him. The silence began to drag on but finally Jon Arryn spoke, never dropping his gaze once.

“Before all this unpleasantness” he managed to sum up the entirety of Robert’s Rebellion with a vague shake of his hand in a dismissive gesture “Brynden Tully had to convince me, quite hard I might stress, that I should resist my natural urge to exile you to your lands to never again see the world beyond its borders. At his urging, I took you on as a minor functionary, and then you proved how much of a young man you are by swearing yourself to my ward as his own sworn-sword. To say that I was irritated at that, would be an understatement.”

Jon accompanied that statement with a smile that had no warmth behind it, and Petyr gulped as his liege-lord’s gaze did not relent.

“I played along, mainly from shock than anything else, and lo and behold, you manage to almost get yourself, Eddard, Howland and two peasants killed in a storm. I was not expecting much of you at all at this point, and considering I ceased to hear about you then, I assumed you’d either get yourself killed in some damned skirmish or otherwise manage to scrape by. Then, when our paths do meet again, I find you running possibly the most efficient logistics operation I have ever seen, at seventeen namedays. An operation that absorbed the sudden addition of two more armies, and that you enforced with the authority of a man twice your age and position.”

Arryn leaned back in his chair, his gaze still not leaving Petyr’s face, but the smile had disappeared to be replaced with a slight grin that _did_ seem to convey some warmth behind it.

“Then you went into battle with the Northern army, and in the ensuing chaos you get injured, but manage to save the life of the only family I have left. I know some point out that Denys is family only by marriage, but I regard him as much as a son as any man can, much in the same way I regarded his wife my daughter. It was then, covered in bile and blood, exhausted against a fountain, that I realized finally that I had failed to see in you what Ser Brynden does, what Eddard does. You may not have fought at the Trident Petyr, but I heard that you did fight your own battle, and there is not a maester I questioned who didn’t agree you put up a heroic effort. Then there was the business with Princess Elia, the sort of thing that gets songs sung about men, and probably did more to make peace with Dorne than anything else.”

Arryn’s gaze moved slightly then, and Petyr realized he was now staring at the black eyepatch he was wearing.

“And then there is what happened in Dorne itself. What you did there brought honour not simply onto your name, but on the names of everyone who had any part in your upbringing. So, when the dust settles and the world returns to normalcy and peace, the question then Petyr, is what exactly do I do with you?

Arryn moved his hands together then, and steeped his fingers, looking at Petyr over them.

“Returning you to the position of a minor functionary in the Eyrie would be a chronic waste of your abilities. Letting you return home to your tower to rot away would be even worse. So instead I needed to find something that would challenge you, and if you succeed would be beneficial to the Vale as much as possible, and if you fail, wouldn’t be irreparable. So Petyr, when you are finished in Winterfell, you will return to Gulltown. I shall send a raven to Denys to make the necessary arrangements, but you will be relieving the Grafton family with respect to their duties of collecting customs dues. A sizable estate outside the town will be awarded to you, simply so you have somewhere to retire to at the end of the day that is not in the city, and if you succeed at this task over, lets say, five years, we shall consider something more challenging.”

Petyr felt his mouth going dry, head of customs in Gulltown was the position that Littlefinger had taken in the other world on his path. But more than that, the potential for making money, not to mention connections and power, in that position would be the sort of thing that would be perfect to help him get things set up. Hells, this was Westeros, if he _wasn’t_ skimming some money off the top that would be more surprising, and with that money he could start to work on plans and projects asap. Before his thoughts could get too far ahead of himself, he quickly remembered where he was and nodded emphatically at Jon Arryn.

“Yes my lord, I mean thank you, I mean yes. Gods. Thank you my lord for this offer, of course I will accept it.”

Jon Arryn’s smile returned then, but this time there was full warmth behind it and it was more of a welcoming thing.

“Good, good. Well I’m glad to see you are enthusiastic at the prospect, I will of course be watching you closely. Now though onto another topic, marriage, now with your new position and the fame you’ve earned over the campaign finding a suitable bride shouldn’t be too hard, I’d rather not have to order some young woman so we’ll throw the line out and see what bites first and…are you feeling well Petyr?”

As Jon Arryn had talked of marriage, Petyr had felt his stomach turn, and while he had tried to keep it from his face, it clearly hadn’t worked. It made sense that Jon Arryn thought he had the right to dictate Petyr’s marital future, but that didn’t mean he liked the idea, so instead Petyr decided to suck in a deep breath before he spoke.

“My lord, I understand that you intend nothing but the best for me, and that you would doubtless pick a great marriage candidate. But I feel I must beg you, please, where it comes to the topic of marriage, I request the right to choose my own bride.”

The warmth went from Jon Arryn’s smile like a candle being extinguished, and Petyr felt certain that the future he had seen for himself had just gone out the window, but after a moment, Jon closed his eyes and nodded slowly.

“Aye. The right to choose your own bride for love, the ultimate dream of youth. Forgive me Petyr, I forget sometimes that you are a man of as few years as you are. Very well, I shall acquiesce to this request with one caveat, if in ten years’ time you have not yet been married, I, or Denys if I should leave this world first, will have the right to dictate to you a marriage of our choosing, and one that you shall not be able to refuse.”

There was no asking Petyr if he agreed, Jon Arryn’s tone of voice, while not hostile, had been firm and Petyr knew better than to push his luck. In the silence that followed, Petyr found himself alone in his thoughts and he realized that if he was ever going to broach the topic of Robert’s health, now was the best time. Arryn was capable of guile, was smart, and had a couple of good reasons to defend Petyr from Tywin if it should come to that. If he could get Jon Arryn on side, it would be easy then to get Howland and Oberyn into Robert’s company to properly examine him. He was about to open his mouth when the same page from earlier burst into the room.

“Lord Baelish, Lord Arryn, I’m sorry for the rude interruption sirs, but I bring news most urgent.”

“Alright Syd” Jon said, his attention focused like a laser on the young lad “we were just finished. What is the news?”

It was then that Petyr heard on the wind coming through the window, the sound of bells ringing, and he realized in his heart at once, what they meant, and that he had been too damned foolish to see what was now blindingly obvious in front of him.

“It’s his Grace, my lord, he has passed.”

***

It was well into the early hours of the morning as Petyr leaned against the railing, watching the star and moonlight reflect off the water of the ocean as the ship belonging to House Manderley carried him north. It was two weeks to the day that Robert had died, and Petyr still didn’t want to stop and think to himself. He had finally, _finally_ found what could have been a good way to get Pycelle sniffed out, but it had been too late, and now Robert Baratheon, first of his name, was dead and entombed, the first non-Targaryen king to be interred in King’s Landing. There had been three solid days of mourning, and to the public it had been one more excuse to get out of the house, to do something, and simply to break up the life in King’s Landing. To the people behind the scenes however, Robert had still been warm when the first issue raised its head, that being what to do with Queen Lyanna. She couldn’t rule, _obviously_ , a thought that made Petyr want to roll his only eye the whole way round, not because he disagreed with the statement, but because he disagreed with the sentiment behind it. If she was with child, things would be further complicated, especially as the usual solution to a Queen outliving her King, a lifetime in the Silent Sisters, was not an option as Lyanna didn’t take with the New Gods. Someone suggested marrying Lyanna to Stannis, but that idea got put down hard.

It had taken the question of whether she was with child or not for someone to actually talk to Lyanna, and even then Ned had to basically be strong-armed into doing it. Petyr felt bad honestly, as while they may have only been married a short time, he could see that the death of Robert was affecting her, and when the issue came up, and she subsequently revealed that herself and Robert had been unable to consecrate the marriage, the other various worthies had sighed with relief as they knew it was now an easy solution of nullifying the marriage. Petyr had wanted to start throttling men then, so he had restrained himself by simply removing himself from the goings on at the funeral as much as possible.

He hadn’t really come out of his self-imposed social exile until the coronation of Stannis, which Ned was obliged to wait for, and even then he had kept his interactions shallow and generally non-committal. Really only talking to Davos or Howland, and thanking his lucky stars that he wouldn’t be in the capital for the marriage of King Stannis to Cersei Lannister. He also went out of his way to talk to Lyanna, to interact with her and make sure she was alright, and while she made a brave face of it, it was clear she was in pain. She was also worried, as while Robert had been alive, the issue of Jon Snow had seemed settled and the baby would be safe in Winterfell, now though, she was concerned for his safety, until that was that Stannis had informed her that while their time as good-brother and good-sister had been short, he had no intention of challenging his brothers wishes with regards to Jon were concerned. Now she was on-board the ship heading to Gulltown, to spend the rest of her days in Winterfell. It would be a better future for Jon, maybe, but the cost of it was one that Petyr didn’t want to think about, he still couldn’t look at himself, not after letting an innocent man die.

He was still staring off into the distance, when he felt a presence on his left side, and while he had long since given up swearing about his loss of peripheral vision on that side, it didn’t mean was comfortable with people suddenly appearing on his blindside. He turned his head and looked, and instead of seeing Howland as he would have expected, his friend still found far too much mirth in sneaking up on Petyr, he found Lyanna was there, staring off into the distance as well. He said nothing, simply turned his head back and let her stand there in silence, until finally she spoke, softly at more than a whisper.

“He was kind you know?” she didn’t turn her head, didn’t look away from whatever she could see, simply spoke softly, but in a way that Petyr knew he was supposed to hear it. “Didn’t yell, didn’t raise his voice. Part of it was because he _couldn’t_ really, especially towards the end. Treated me kindly, treated Jon kindly even. Now I can’t help but find myself thinking what if? What if he had survived? What if I had married him in the first place? What if I hadn’t been such a stupid girl?”

He heard a sound from her then, and turned to look and saw her shuddering as she let the tears she had been holding back finally burst forth.

“Would my father be alive? My brother? Would the husband who was kind to me, the one I rejected because I was an idiot, still be alive? Would you still have two eyes? Would Ned still have all his friends? Would William still be able to use both hands?”

She broke off again, continuing to sob, and lacking anything else he could do, Petyr placed a hand on her back and began to rub a circle with his hand and make a soothing noise. She seemed shocked at his touch, but she didn’t say anything to him, just continued to cry and allowed him to continue. If the small members of the night crew were anywhere nearby, they made certain to not interrupt, and so Petyr was left alone trying to console Lyanna as she completely and utterly broke down into tears. Tears for her father, her brother, the husband she could have had if Petyr had not been such a coward. She just cried, and it took every effort of Petyr’s will to not just break down and join her, the knowledge that, for now at least, the bloodletting was well and truly over.

***

The trip to Winterfell from White Harbour had been a somewhat solitary affair, well, as much of a solitary affair as was possible with an armed escort of Stark bannermen. William Dustin had met his wife at the docks of White Harbour, and after lifting her into a tight squealing embrace, no mean feat for a man almost totally down a hand, he had stayed long enough to sample some Manderley hospitality and then left for home with his wife and red horse in tow. Howland had separated from the group halfway to Winterfell, telling Ned and Lyanna that he trusted Petyr to bring them home the rest of the way, and telling Petyr he had an open invitation at his home, and when Petyr asked how he would find it, his friend had simply told him to wander around the Neck for a while, and he’d be brought to it then. With that Howland had left for his home, and Petyr couldn’t help but hope his friend enjoyed meeting his daughter, so long as things still went as they should anyway, Howland’s wife wasn’t exactly the sort to send letters via Raven so he wasn’t sure. When their party finally came within sight of Winterfell, Petyr felt his shoulders start to tense up as he knew what was coming, and he guided his horse to trot in step beside Lyanna, saying nothing to her, but just riding beside her as they passed through the gates into the courtyard. Benjen and Cat were stood side by side beside a man that Petyr realised had to be Maester Luwin, and in her arms Cat held a well stuffed bundle that after a brief moment, Petyr realised was a baby.

Ned dismounted in one swift fluid motion, in a display of speed and grace Petyr could only put down to excitement, and handed his reigns to the veritable giant of a man who stood nearby, that Petyr quickly realised was Hodor, except instead of saying “Hodor” Petyr heard him say “Welcome home m’lord”. Ned shot the man a quick grin, and then turned towards where Benjen and Cat had walked towards him, Benjen looking as if he was about to explode of excitement and Cat with a smile on her face as Ned first embraced his brother and then kissed his wife, then with hands that shook only a little bit, he took the bundle in his hands as he stood beside his wife. Petyr didn't quite catch the conversation between the two, but the announcement that followed hardly surprised him.

"This is my son" Ned said to the gathered crowd, speaking while Petyr dismounted and relieved Lyanna of Jon so she could dismount "Robb Stark."

A cheer went through the crowd, and Petyr saw Cat looked satisfied as Ned held his new son in his arms some more, getting a better look at him. Granted that satisfaction might take a hit when the matter of Alysanne was brought up, but Petyr was staying far, far out from that. It was then that Lyanna made her way over towards her brothers. Any proper protocol that may have been planned fell apart then, as the three Stark siblings and two Stark babies, wound up in a tight embrace and the other people assembled in the courtyard managed to look suitably bemused at such a display of affection. Petyr found that Cat had moved over to him, and as she looked at him he could see pain in her eyes.

“Oh Petyr, oh Gods what happened to you?”

Her voice was full of sympathy, and she looked stunned as she half raised a hand towards his eyepatch.

“There was a fight Cat, I’m still not sure if I won or lost, but that” he nodded towards the three Starks “was the outcome, so I’m inclined to think I won.”

She just looked at him again, her face a mess of confusion, but finally she spoke.

"It's not like the stories we were told is it?"

"No it's not, I'm inclined to think its better."

And that the Stark cuddle-puddle broke up and the welcoming ceremony regained some sense of decorum.

***

The celebration of Ned and Lyanna’s safe return, introductions of Jon and Robb Stark to the mix, meant that the mood in the main hall of Winterfell was nothing short of magical in its celebratory tone. Food and wine flowed freely, musicians performed, with Petyr getting shanghaied into performing too, and the conversation between everyone was pleasant and hopeful. Petyr was sat at the head table, on Cat’s right, while Ned sat on her left, never once letting go of her hand. He ate and drank as much as was polite, but decided that tonight was not a night where he should get totally drunk, lest he start spilling details about the things that were making his sleep fitful at best, instead he engaged Maester Luwin over the topic of the book Petyr was writing about the campaign, and the Maester was mid-sentence, giving advice on pacing, when Ned stood up and held his hands in the air for silence, and within moments he received it.

“Friends, please, a moment of your time. I know that tonight is an occasion of celebration, and time of revelry, but I would like to take a moment for us to remember those that gave their lives so that we might see this moment.”

Ned bowed his head then, and Petyr quickly noticed the rest of the hall joining in, and so did he. The hall remained like that for what felt like a minute, when Ned spoke again, and as he did, Petyr noticed his cup was now in his hand.

“To the dead. For only they shall know everlasting summer.”

The crowd rumbled in response, and Petyr found himself joining the chorus of voices simply stating “to the dead”, and as he did, he took a mouthful of wine, and just allowed the atmosphere of the hall to wash over him, like a wave crashing on a beach. If it was for situations like this he needed to be prepared to save the future for, then he had no problems doing it at all. Besides, he would have time to explore Winterfell over the coming days, and whether that proved fruitful or not, it should at least be interesting.

***

His explorations of Winterfell had not turned up anything in particular, not that he had expected to find something with a big glowing sign saying “To defeat White Walkers, break glass”. Hoped maybe, but not expected. Instead he had found out more about life in Winterfell itself, which had been somewhat interesting, he supposed, if nothing else the former Dire-Wolf kennels had been fascinating to see in person, and Walder was a pleasant man perfectly content to tell Petyr all sorts of stories that Old Nan had told him about Winterfell. The fact that Hodor _wasn’t_ Hodor was of course worrying to Petyr on multiple levels, because he didn’t know how the hell he had caused this, but he was willing to accept it without looking too hard for now. But Walder wasn’t his guide now, and instead of being in the stables, or anything on the ground floor, he was instead somewhat highly up the broken tower in company with Benjen who was determined to show the man who had brought his brother and sister home around everywhere that Walder couldn’t, or at least, that was his cover story.

The fact that Bran had been chucked out this tower and crippled was playing up on Petyr’s reluctance to go climbing up a partially ruined tower, but he went anyway and as Benjen brought him into what was a fairly clear section of the tower, Petyr finally spoke, after holding his tongue to humour the youngest Stark.

“Alright Benjen, I don’t think there is anyone else around, so what is it you dragged me up here to talk about?”

Benjen at least had the decency to turn bright red with embarrassment, his cunning and subtle plan foiled by Petyr.

“Petyr” he had managed to get Benjen to stop addressing him as Lord anything after a while “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

Benjen didn’t even sound particularly confident in his lie as he spoke, but Petyr just raised an eyebrow and cocked his head to the side.

“Your face tells a different story. Clearly you wanted to talk about something away from prying ears, and considering this is your own home and you are worried about someone over-hearing you, it must be of a personal matter, so go on, spill.”

Benjen looked at him again, but he began to speak slowly after a few seconds.

“Well, Petyr, I was hoping for some advice. Ned is back, Lyanna is back. Ned has Cat and Robb, Lyanna has Jon, so they will both be happy, and I mean it was all my fault Lyanna even was able to run in the first place because I could have stopped her, but instead I let her so now I think I should just leave while everyone is happy and I can join the Night’s Watch.”

Petyr blinked. Then he replayed what Benjen had just said again in his head. He then applied his own memories of being a teenager, well, sort of, and slowly the whole picture came together and when he finally spoke back to Jon, he tried to put as much sternness behind his one eye as he could manage.

“Right. Tell me if I’m misunderstanding, but you think that because Lyanna and Ned are happy, now is the perfect time to go off and join the Night’s Watch, and you feel you need to do this to atone for the fact that you could have stopped Lyanna from doing what she did but didn’t. Am I correct?”

Benjen nodded quickly, as if hearing what he had said being repeated back to him was causing him to realise the flaws. Which was good, it would make what Petyr was about to do easier.

“Right. I’m going to need you to bear with me for one second, because this might get repetitive.” Petyr then cleared his throat and returned to staring at Benjen, and then he opened his mouth.

“No. No no no no, no no no no, no no no no no, FUCKING NO. Listen to me Benjen Stark, and listen well. You have NOTHING to feel guilty about. If you want me to think, for five bloody seconds you could stop Lyanna doing something when she has her mind set to it, then I have a lovely statue in Braavos to sell you. Also, do not even get me started on the whole “They are happy so now is the perfect time to leave” thing. To put it simply, your sister and your nephew are going to be going through _hell_ for the next while. Your brother needs someone he can trust implicitly to watch his back. Hell, let me put it in simple terms that you can understand. That” he pointed at a nearby Stark banner that was lazily flapping in the light breeze “is the symbol of your house. Wolves stick together, otherwise they die, so live up to your banner and stand by your family.”

Silence followed as Petyr finished, and he thought he had gone too far as he saw Benjen’s face on the edge of tears. Petyr might have been slightly too harsh on him, so he sighed and spoke again, this time his voice as soft as he could manage.

“Benjen, I’m sorry. But I stand by my point. Your family needs you, and running off to punish yourself will not help them, I’m sorry. Do me a favour, talk to Ned and Lyanna, they are your family and they will love you, no matter what decision you make, I think you would be insane personally, but seriously, talk to them, please.”

Benjen continued to stare at Petyr, but then he began to nod his head shakily, and he spoke again, his own voice soft as well.

“Aye Petyr, I will do that. Aye. Thank you.”

***

Petyr was not aware of the details of the conversation that Benjen had had with Lyanna and Ned, but when Ned had let people know that Benjen was to take over Moat Cailin and try to restore it, with Winterfell carrying the costs, and that his youngest brother was to be named the Lord of Moat Cailin when the site was in a reasonably liveable condition, he reckoned that it must have been a hell of a conversation. Cat didn’t seem to mind, she was actually spending as much time cooing and cawing over Jon as Lyanna was over Robb, which put Petyr in mind of an Attenborough documentary on wolves raising pups, and if she saw her husband’s younger brother being given his own title and lands, a title and lands that could have gone to her children, as a threat, she was doing a dammed fine job hiding it. In general it seemed that the good mood that was permeating Winterfell would continue, and Petyr was happy to see it do so, especially as he knew he was going to have to leave at some point. He couldn’t stay at Winterfell forever, he had to get to Gulltown before Jon Arryn sent people looking for him, and while the idea of running away into the North and becoming a traveling minstrel had its appeal, he couldn’t do it. So he was enjoying his mini-holiday as much as he could, and right now he was sat below the branches of the heart-tree in the Winterfell Weirwood, and the view alone would be enough to make him content. Instead he sat cross-legged, his “guitar” in his hands, as he sang to himself.

“ _Home is behind,_

_The world ahead,_

_And there are many paths to thread,_

_Mist and shadow, cloud and shade,_

_All is lost, All shall fade._ ”

It was a short sad song, but he didn’t mind the lyrics too much, instead taking joy in the act of singing it, a reminder of a different world. He finished the cords on it, taking a break, and was about to start playing something from the Cash playbook when he was interrupted.

“A sad song for a joyous place Petyr, please don’t get up.”

He looked up to see Lyanna looking at him, she had sat herself down on a branch from the heart-tree that almost seemed to have grown out of the ground to be a seat. He smiled at her as he sketched a half bow from his seated position.

“Sometimes a wee bit of sadness can make the joy all the more apparent. Do you want me to leave so you can pray? I was mainly just enjoying the peace.”

“No Petyr, you can stay. I just happened to hear you playing your instrument and came to investigate.”

“And what did you think this time?”

“Better, though you will have a hard time yet seducing any maidens to run off with you into a forest glade.”

She tried to keep her expression teasing as she said that, but an undercurrent of pain was still there, and Petyr just let her be. She seemed to have descended into a form of self-depreciating humour, which was odd, but different people grieve in different ways, so Petyr was saying nothing, instead he just gave her a wicked smile.

“Bah, maidens. Always better to seduce a woman with some experience, they know better than to buy into silly romantic nonsense and just get to it.”

Lyanna stared at him, shocked completely, and Petyr felt for a moment that he might have just gone a wee bit too far in teasing her back, especially on a subject that she was somewhat sensitive too, but then she composed herself into her own grin and stared back at him.

“Well I shall have to write to Prince Oberyn then, tell him he is in luck that you prefer someone with experience.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Are you quite certain about that Lord Baelish?”

“If I have learned anything across my life Lady Lyanna, it is not to be certain of anything.”

“That is where you are wrong, you can be certain of one thing in life.”

“Oh? And what’s that?”

“That it is almost time for dinner, and you had better get a move on if you want to be in anyway presentable. I believe my good-sisters exact words were “not looking like he had been dragged backwards through a hedge””.

“Preposterous, Cat would never describe me like that.”

“Really? When is the last time you looked at yourself Petyr? There is a stream right there.”

She pointed at the small stream that ran nearby, and Petyr felt himself freeze. He didn’t want to look at himself, he didn’t like what looked back, hadn’t liked it sense he had chosen to condemn this woman’s husband to death.

“Go on” she said, her voice still teasing “go and look, leave your guitar there.”

Petyr found himself getting up on shaky legs and leaving his guitar against the tree, he then took a couple of steps to the stream and crouched down to look in it, and look at the man staring back. Gods, he really did look like crap. His facial hair was coming in patchy, parts of his hair were sticking out in tufts, and in general he looked like death warmed up.

“See, I told you. I’ll go ahead and get a bath drawn Petyr, you are long overdue.”

Lyanna got up and left him as he stayed there, looking at himself, and as he did, he found he wasn’t as disgusted at the face he was seeing as much as he used to be. Instead he stood back up again, and went to retrieve his guitar.

It was then he tripped over a tree branch and fell forward, and he felt a sharp pain on his cheek. He stood back up then, touched his right hand to his face and saw the blood on his fingers, then he saw the rock he had hit on the ground.

That was when he felt something collide into his back, and as he flailed out his right hand for support, he leaned against the tree and saw a black raven on the ground, now staring up at him.

“What the fuck?”

He managed to get the question out before the raven started to caw in laughter, and Petyr felt his right hand getting hot. He turned to look, to see his bloody hand placed right in the centre of the face of the heart-tree.

And then things got strange.


	26. Interlude I - The Pup

**Interlude I,**

**The Pup**

**Somewhere in the Neck,**

**283 AC**

“GO TO FUCKING HELL YOU CUNTS!” Sandor screamed at the distant forms watching him. They continued to stare at him as he let out a snarl and only moved as he tried to trudge his way towards them through the flea bitten hell that was the swamp he had been tricked into. His foot went slightly further into the ground than he would like, and after a solid week in this hell he knew what that meant, and as he looked down to try and prevent himself getting too stuck, the bastards must have disappeared again, as when he looked up again, they were gone. As they had been every time so far that they had haunted him.

‘Fuck’ he thought to himself as he managed to get his feet back on more firm ground ‘fuck all this fucking shit.’ The plan had been simple, but not without difficulties. Getting the four cornered pile of shit he called home taken care of had taken nearly two years and a half to sort out, thanks in no small part to the _Bastards mismanagement_ over the years, but at least that had been able to get Tywin Lannister to let him go in the first place. Then had come travelling to Casterly Rock to ask Jaime Lannister for the whole story, and after finally getting the golden idiot to tell him, he had needed to travel to the whole other side of Westeros, to Gulltown. He had planned on travelling to Gulltown and doing what Lannister had said and asking Lord Petyr Baelish about where to find this Howland Reed, but when he got there he had been informed that Lord Baelish was busy. He had nearly put a gauntleted fist through the chamberlains face that told him that, but he had just about managed to reign his temper in as he made an appointment through gritted teeth. An appointment that had taken the better part of a month, and when he did meet the one eyed man, the meeting hadn’t made him any less angry.

“ _You want to know where to find Howland Reed? Listen carefully to me, you don’t want to go travelling that road.”_

_The one eyed Lord stared at him from behind a desk, his hands clasped before him as he seemed entirely nonplussed at Sandor’s growing anger and irritation._

“ _You don’t know what road I want” Sandor growled out “so why don’t you stop being like the fucking rest of the world and trying to play me a fool and tell me what I want to know.”_

 _Sandor knew what he came across as, a big angry brute, and he knew that using that image allowed him to get away with a lot, even then, using the language he used on a Lord normally got an outraged reaction, one that Sandor could then act apologetic to and allow the Lord to feel superior and thus tell him what he wanted. Baelish_ didn’t _react like that, he just raised a single eyebrow and managed to do what only Tywin did before, and make Sandor feel like he was out of his depth._

“ _Firstly Sandor, if you think being a big angry man will get you what you want, I’d suggest you bring it up with the dozen or so armed men on the other side of that door” Baelish pointed to his right at a different door than the one Sandor had been disarmed at and ushered through “secondly, I am not trying to play you, I’m trying to give you a fucking chance. You go after Howland Reed with the anger you have, and he’ll have you dead inside seconds, and you won’t even see him coming. So think for one moment, do you really want to do this?”_

_Sandor stared at the other man for a long moment, feeling the burns on his face, feeling the hatred he had for the Bastard, feeling nothing but the anger of being cheated out of the one thing he had to look forward to in life._

“ _Yes” he said through gritted teeth “more than you can ever know.”_

_Baelish closed his eye for a long moment and then sighed, he then straightened himself and looked back at Sandor, his face a stone mask._

“ _Very well. To find Howland Reed, go to the Neck, find Moat Cailin. Ask there for directions, I can give you no better than that. I’d advise you to pack light, the Neck is an unforgiving environment.”_

Sandor slapped at his neck and let out a grunt of satisfaction as he got the insect that thought to feed on him “unforgiving environment” was an understatement. To start with the directions he had been given were false, and if he ever saw that short red-haired man again, he was going to throttle him. He had been told to go west for two days and he would arrive at the hall of Howland Reed, but instead he had only wound up further and further in the swamp. He knew then he was lost, but that wasn’t a problem as he could simply ride back east two days, which would have been fine if he hadn’t been woken up in the middle of that night to the terrifying sound of his horse being killed by a lizard-lion, and before Sandor could get his hands on the beast, it had slipped back below the water. That would have been bad enough, but that was when the distant forms had started to watch him. They were men, no more than nine, who kept to the distance and simply watched him as he tried to trudge through the swamp. He had called out to them multiple times with no response, and if he didn’t see them move he would think they were some strange statue.

He had lost his temper with them quickly enough, and as his rations grew lower and lower, and as he got more and more lost, he found himself screaming at them more and more as they tormented him with their mere presence. He should have easily been back to the Winter Road by now, but he was not, and he was starting to feel he would die in this place, and he would be fucked if he would give the fucking insects here the satisfaction, so he trudged on as best he could, and while the forms were gone for now, he knew they would be back, and when they did he would-

He had only a moments warning of movement on his right side before the lizard-lion was upon him, and Sandor found himself on his back, his right hand and left forearm just barely keeping the things mouth from closing on him. If he had not had the warning, he would doubtless be dead, and even now he could feel the creatures teeth cutting through the thick glove on his right hand, but the mail on his left arm at least was working.

“No” he snarled as he put all his strength into holding “no you fucking don’t you fucking cunt.” He would not die here to some fucking lizard in the middle of a shit swamp chasing after a god damned ghost. He _would_ get out of here, he _would_ find that bastard that gave him directions, and he _would_ rip his fucking head of his shoulders and take a shit down his throat. Then he’d get that bastard Baelish for sending him here in the first place. Then he would find Reed, and get revenge for his one fucking rightful kill being stolen from him.

“Fuck Baelish” he said as he managed to move himself onto his knees, his back straightening as he went “Fuck Reed, fuck Lannisters and FUCK YOU GREGOR!”

He roared out the last part as he brought himself to stand, and with everything he could he opened the Lizard’s mouth further than it ever opened naturally. There was a pained hiss from the creature as he did it, but Sandor didn’t care as he kept opening further, until finally he felt a loud snap come from the creature and it flopped to the ground, still moving, but its jaw flapping uselessly.

“And fuck you too” he said, and he reached for the sword on his belt, drew it, and planted it straight through the creatures underbelly, bringing it down the length of it and allowing the entrails of the creature to spill out on the ground. With that done though, the battle-rage strength deserted him and he felt himself falling to the ground on his knees first, and then to his back, sheer exhaustion hitting him like a warhammer. He could have lain there for the rest of the day, but then his light was blocked as he looked up and saw a man standing over him, a red-headed short man with a large smile on his face.

“Not bad, not bad at all. I knew you by reputation of course Master Clegane, and I knew one day you would come. So tell me, why are you here?”

Sandor groggily managed to get into a sitting position as he stared at the man.

“You” he said “you are the one that sent me out here on this fucking chase.”

“I am. Petyr told me you would be coming. Now though Master Clegane, please answer my question.”

“You killed my brother.”

“A man you had no love for.”

“That doesn’t matter, _you_ killed him. He did this to me” he said, gesturing at his burnt face “he killed my Father, he had his men gang-rape and kill my sister, he was _mine_ to kill, then _you_ killed him.”

Reed stared at him then for a moment, and almost through him, and Sandor stared back as hard as he could.

“That may be true Master Clegane, but that doesn’t answer my question. Why are you here?”

Sandor stared at him as long and hard as he could, but he spoke then, softly and with no anger in his voice.

“I want to know how.”

Reed looked at him then and nodded once.

“Very well, you are not far from my hall so come along and be welcome, and I shall show you how, but bring your trophy” he pointed at the dead Lizard “it is rude to appear at a mans hall without a gift. Consider that your first lesson.”


	27. Interlude II - The Witch

**Interlude II,**

**The Witch**

**Volantis,**

**287 AC**

The world was falling to darkness.

What once the light shone as clear as day, was now clouded and darkened by smoke and fog that no prayer or hope was able to penetrate. The Hell within which all of R’hllor’s children resided in, the world around her and the other faithful, was now approaching the final days of the war with the Great Other, and the battle was nigh.

She knew that much, she had seen it, at least she had seen it before the smoke had started to block the visions gifted to all of R’hllor’s loyal servants, even if some felt that she herself had been incorrect in her interpretation or unworthy of their great Lord’s attention. She had seen Azor Ahai returned to the world, she had seen him wield Lightbringer in the confrontation with the Great Other that was to come, and she had seen from where he was to come. He was a prince, a man of ancient noble blood, who stood without his rightful crown. He was surrounded by dragons, and he would give all he could to R’hllor to lead the worthy to their salvation. He would also come, not from the direction of the rising sun as the High Priest had claimed, but from the western setting sun, from where the darkness was at its height. She had seen all this, spoken all this, and for her words and sights, she had been mocked and derided by her contemporaries and indeed chastised by the High Priest for spreading her visions to any who would listen. She had even heard the comments made, the ones of her past and how a woman such as herself could _never_ possibly be able to obtain the levels of blessings that a more pure hearted servant of R’hllor could. That while R’hllor preserved her mind and spirit, the blessing used to preserve her body was nothing more than a reminder of the long ago days when as a child she had served her master in ways that so many other women did, on her back.

Those voices however had trailed off as no more than eight years ago the fog had begun to appear. At first it was nothing, but as time went on the obscuring of the visions of the Lord of Light reached even the highest chambers of the church, and as such gossip and politics against her had died off in the face of what many had viewed as the single greatest threat to the world. She had not joined those same people, as she had known that the Lord of Light would _never_ abandon his loyal children, so she had persevered, and in the face of the chaos her preachings and messages had begun to do something they had not before, they had found receptive audiences. Oh she had always had a few followers, but nothing more than a handful, and especially not other Red Priests, but as she had preached stability and reassurance when the rest had panicked, some of the lower servants of the Lord had flocked to her, and she had found that instead of a handful or people, she was preaching to dozens, then hundreds, as each Priest who found comfort in her words either relayed her words to their own congregations, or brought them to her themselves. And then she had made her great discovery, that being the fog _could_ be broken if she used the most ancient of the magics R’hllor had bestowed on his followers. Blood.

She had used her own blood at first, and the fog had stirred and moved, not enough to be as clear as it once had, but enough to allow her to see the very edge of the shapes of the visions she once had had. From there, she had preached to her followers, and they had given their blood willingly to aid her, and as they did, her own visions became clearer, as her own new acolytes saw themselves when they joined her in the rights and ceremonies that the most ancient of the holy texts discussed. Like her, they saw images that were almost, but not quite, enough to make out, and like her they saw that the Fog was not simply coming from everywhere, but from a single direction to the West. Still though, the blood of her congregates was not enough to truly break through the veil that had been placed, and so she had put out the call.

It had taken nearly three years to find enough of the willing, and as she stood atop a rock outcrop near Volantis city itself, she could make out each of the three hundred volunteers who were now stood in robes of orange, each one holding hands with another. They stood amongst the wood and turpentine of the great bonfire, and as she stood she could hear their voices carrying the words of the hymns she had instructed to her. Blood alone would not be enough to break the vale, but the very willing sacrifice of ones own life, to willingly give everything in service to their fellow child of Light, would be enough. Or so the texts had alluded, as they had also said that a simple single person would not be enough to oppose the will of the Great Other, instead it would take three hundred to truly force the path needed. And as the blessed willing continued to sing, Melisandre turned to her longest Acolyte and nodded. The bald Myrish priest simply bowed at her nod and turned to signal others, and after he did drums began to beat as the audience began to sing a different hymn while the holy flames were put to the fire. It did not take long for the flames to start to find their fuel, and for their holy spirits to find the willing souls who would give all to save their others, and even as the hymn from the fire died in replacement of the screams of ecstasy from being brought close to their Lord’s home, the audience watching, and the Fiery Hand members who stood to prevent any from leaving their Lord’s embrace, continued to chant their own hymn to the beat of the drums, all the while staring fixed as the great flame burned higher and higher into the sky.

As the flame reached its peak, Melisandre gazed deeply into it, and was met with the same Fog that had blocked all visions, but it was weakening as the Great Other’s grasp upon the world was damaged by the pure concentrated devotion to the Lord of Light that she had gathered. She gazed harder and harder, her own mouth moving in time with the hymn, and eventually she saw the fog break and the visions spread before her as clear as they had been before. But where before the visions had been simple images, easy to pick apart and read, the new visions she had before her were enough to send even fear and doubt through her own bones, yet she fought to remain rooted where she stood, to not look away, to watch and learn.

She saw deep cold water rise as it washed away all in its path until finally it was forced back to nothingness. She saw shapes of different hues pulling and pushing each other until eventually they were all but separate. She saw black turn brown, then blue, then red before turning to nothing at all. She saw more animals and creatures than she could count, all tearing and rending each other from limb to limb, as blood poured and pooled. She saw chaos as trees turned to stone, and crops turned to nothing but withered death. Cities fell, chains broke and were reforged. Great flocks of birds hunted at once one, and all. All around her she could see nothing but chaos and destruction. And worst of all she saw the ancient cold darkness rise, but where once before she had seen Azor Ahai rise to defeat it, instead there was nothing as the darkness rose.

She did not look away, could not look away as the Lord of Light showed her nothing but the imminent very end of the world and the unbelievable victory of the Great Other.

“Show me” she whispered as she stared, her face starting to burn and her lips crack as she felt herself leaning further into the fire “show me oh Lord, how to stop it.”

But if the Lord of Light was willing to do so, he did not share it with her, as the Great Other’s grasp began to return and the images warped before her very eyes. And the Fog began to return. But before it went entirely, she saw one clear vision. A man astride a pale horse, his eyes red and green, and he held out a single hand to her and his mouth moved, and she heard a voice not simply aloud, but in her very soul.

“ **Come And See**.”

And behind him all the horrors she had seen came rushing forward, and then there was simply nothing as she felt herself tumble to the ground, finally having seen too much.


	28. Chapter 26 - Start of Part II

**Part II,**

**Chapter 26**

**Euron I**

Eight years. Eight long years. The Iron Islands had been under the rule of greenlander Baratheon for eight years, and during that time what had they gotten from it? Nothing. Oh it had seemed a good idea at the time to join the older Baratheon’s rebellion, the reaving along the Reach had been such sweet succour to any true Ironborn that even the death of his father hadn’t been enough to dampen his spirits. But then the Reach had bent the knee, and Balon as the new Lord of the Iron Isles had done so as well, rightfully thinking that the time to strike was not when all the Greenlander’s would have been united against them. So they had languished, abandoned on their isles, and been left to ply what meagre sustenance they could from the great seas and minor Isles. But time made no distinction of man, and as it passed, it started to be seen more and more that the actions of the younger Baratheon seemed to drive wedges between the Greenlanders. The Reach had no love lost towards King’s Landing, being treated with nothing more than the absolute minimum of courtesy by both King and Queen. Dorne continued to sit itself in near isolation from the rest of the lands, almost a mirror of the North, but with different weather.

The Riverlands, the lands that all Ironmen knew where theirs by ancient birthright, they continued to be as fat and lazy as they always had been, only putting effort into trying to curry favour with the Crown in whatever way would benefit itself and nothing more. The Vale and the Westerlands seemed to be the only kingdoms that truly seemed loyal to the Baratheon, the latter due to blood and the former due to Jon Arryn, but even then, they were only two lands, within which loyalists to the old regime still dwelled and doubtless awaited their opportunity to strike. But compared to the full strength of the Ironborn, they would be nothing more than gusts to a gale, especially if all his machinations and plans carried through. Only the fleet an Lannisport truly threatened the Ironborn, and Euron had plans for that particular obstacle, but first other matters would need to be seen to, and it was the most pressing of these matters that led him to stand beside Victarion under the ribs of Nagga and watch what was happening.

Tarle the Thrice-Drowned stood over the sitting form of his brother Balon as he placed the crown made of driftwood upon his head, and as he did the gathering crowd let forth their roars of pleasure, which was honestly a touch too far in Euron’s opinion, but who was he to deny his own kin a bit of pageantry when the moment called for it? The roars blessedly came to an end as Balon stood up, his hands held for silence, and he began to speak.

“Ironborn, warriors and reavers of these Isles, hear me. Know you not that I’ve spent these last years, not in idle bemusement, but preparation? Know you not that I have seen the great Iron Fleet rebuilt and prepared? Know you not that the Greenlander whelp who calls himself King lives on a throne more fragile and wavering than a salt-wife before first bedding? All these are true, and all these are why you are here on this day. I arise before you the only King an Ironborn ever needs, the only King that matters, a King who will take what we need, and pay the Iron Price for it. We no longer need fear the wrath of Greenlander’s, for what Dragon can they truly call upon now? No, it is time we stood as we are, as we always will be, free men who do not sow.”

He roared out the last part and received a joyful roar of ecstasy back from the gathered crowds, which would doubtless help in whipping them up into the frenzy that would be so useful if Victarion was to carry out Euron’s plan with anything approaching a modicum of success.

“We will fight, we will take, and we will be victorious. Let them come in their sad excuse for ships, they shall find that what is dead may never die, and that the seas are our domain!”

There was more after that of course, Balon never seemed to tire of his own voice, but Euron generally stopped listening to focus inwards on his own thoughts. They would be setting sail at first tide the following day, and preparations needed to be made and plans set into motion.

*******

His boat moved with the rhythm of the sea as it sailed ever closer to Lannisport, creeping in the shadows like a thief in the night. He may not be in the van of this attack, but it didn’t mean he wouldn’t be present, not least of which to make sure his brother did not make a massive failure of the whole event. However, he felt that there was likely the blessings of the God’s themselves as the ships crept ever closer, as the single greatest ally to Euron’s plan presumably slept soundly in his bed. Tywin Lannister was by all accounts a shrewd and capable man, and if he had been present Euron’s plan would have doubtless been little more than to burn the ships and leave, lest the Ironborn find themselves facing a rapid and decisive response. However the Old Lion was in King’s Landing, serving as the King’s hand, doubtless wiping the Baratheon’s arse. Instead the Young Lion was in residence, and Jaime Lannister was not his father, oh he was quick, battle-hardened and according to all the tales the perfect embodiment of a knight. But Euron’s plan was not one that a knight could easily fight, his plan was more of a close knife work plan than an open charge in a field plan. Lannisport _would_ burn, it would be the opening move of a series of raids along the Westerlands, destroying not only any ship that could be brought to bare, but also looting and taking anything that the Iron Islands needed. Timber stores, naval equipment, food and weapons, those were the targets that mattered, although fools like Victarion would doubtless focus themselves on gold and salt-wives, not that Euron planned to ignore those things of course.

This would be the opening moves of a war, not a simple raid of old, and as Lannisport drew ever closer, he felt his lips peel back in a grin of anticipation. After all, if his plan went perfectly, the Rock itself would fall this day.


	29. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27,**

**Cat I**

Since marrying her husband, Cat had found little to truly worry her. Her life was not exactly from a childish story, after all most of those stories rarely included being married to the younger brother of your original dead betrothed, but the reality she found herself in was one that was not too far off. Ned loved her, it had taken time for him to love her, as, she admitted to herself, it had taken her time to love him. Neither had exactly planned on their marriage happening, and truth be told the fact that their marriage had been unexpected to them both had been a cause of some friction between them, but over time it had come to fade, and from that simple marital duty had grown into real affection. Part of that had been down to Ned’s own unique style of gentle firmness, a trait that had taken some time for her to see and learn to appreciate. He was not some unwavering, unbending boar of a man, he was indeed quite malleable to her requests and needs as the small sept that stood on Winterfell’s grounds illustrated, he in general possessed a willingness to please, but not at cost of his rank, a trait most women would be lucky to find in their husbands. Part of it was also down to the children that she had borne Ned already, both Robb and Sansa were healthy and had come through their younger years with no great tragedy, as she hoped her current babe would, and only a fool could look at how Ned doted on their children and think he loved them with anything less than his whole heart. Of course, that kindness and love within him was why she still had some small worries, and as the party of travellers came ever closer to the grounds of Winterfell, she found herself nervously fingering the lace on her sleeves as a means of keeping herself calm.

The party that was drawing ever closer was not particularly large, and considering the safety of the roads in the North, the armed guard that surrounded it seemed almost out of place. But it was a guard made of men in the colours of both houses Stark and Dayne, and while Ned, as well as Cat’s own goodsister, may have no particular ill will towards the house of Dayne, there was more than a few houses in the North that wouldn’t have minded an opportunity for a little “light” vengeance. They had made good time from White Harbour, at least judging from Lord Manderly’s own dispatch of their arrival and departure, but Cat had to admit she would have been happier if the trip had been even more delayed, preferably by another year so that instead of being heavily with child, she could have used the opportunity to, in the words of her goodsister, “remind Ned who he belonged to” even more thoroughly than she had for the last fortnight. But alas, the trip had already been delayed nearly six months, as Alysanne Sands, Ned’s bastard daughter, had been ill when she had turned onto her seventh name day, and so by mutual agreement between Ned and the girl’s mother, the trip had been delayed.

It was at that moment a very light hand brushed her left shoulder, snapped her thoughts together and she slightly looked over her shoulder at her goodsister, a woman whose own face was a near unreadable mask as the travelling party finally entered into the courtyard.

“Calm Catelyn, calm. That lace is nearly pulled out.”

Cat glanced down at her sleeve and saw that instead of just fidgeting, she had started to pull out the lace and some of the stitching was visibly loosening. She swallowed a breath and looked at Lyanna, mouthed a soft thank you to which Lyanna only gave a brief wink and returned her gaze to the wheelhouse that had come to a stop.

Walder was waiting nearby with a small staircase that he carried over to place beside it, and as he did and moved to place himself among the other stablemen, standing out as a tree amongst saplings, the covers on the wheelhouse were peeled back and Ned stepped towards them. The woman who came out from them was simply beautiful. Ashara Dayne possessed coal black hair and eyes that, even from the seat Cat had been forced to use by virtue of her pregnancy, spoke of her Valyrian blood, being as they were a strong violet. Ned offered her a hand down the steps, one which she accepted with a slight smile, and Cat felt the same light hand from earlier touch her shoulder in reassurance, something she was grateful for as it allowed her to reaffirm the world around her without breaking decorum. There was movement in the wheelhouse again, and a smaller figure came forward and accepted Ned’s again offered hand. The girl, and she was only a child no older than her own Robb, walked with a grace matching her mother, and as Cat looked at her, she could see the same coal black hair, but the child’s eyes did not share the same as her mother.

With both the guests disembarked, Ned turned and came to stand beside her, offering an arm to her as an aid for standing up, and as she struggled herself onto her feet, Ashara Dayne and Ned’s daughter had come closer.

“Ashara Dayne” Ned said from beside her “you are welcome within Winterfell. There is bread and salt inside, as well as a light meal for both yourself and the men who have escorted you.”

Ashara Dayne managed a curtsey that even the strictest of Cat’s own tutors would have had no fault with, a display of easy grace that Cat had to fight down a sudden shot of irritation at.

‘Cat, she didn’t mean it as an insult, and even if she did, you will _not_ give her the satisfaction of reacting.’ The thought went through her mind with practised ease, she had enough experience of being with child to know her emotions were hardly hers at the moment, so she maintained her dignity and poise as she had been raised to do, and as she had come to do time and again.

‘You are the Lady of Winterfell, no-one else can match that. Hold it, use it, and damn anyone foolish enough to forget it _._ ’

“Alysanne Sands” Ned said, turning his gaze to the young girl “you are of Stark blood, so you need not be made welcome to Winterfell, for it is your home come all that may.”

The words were formal, but Ned’s voice had filled with warmth as he spoke them, one of the peculiarities of life in the North was the reference with which the old customs were held to. Simply by saying the words he did, he had acknowledged before all around them that she was to be made as welcome here as Benjen Stark would be if he walked through the gates tomorrow. He could have said it with the sort of coldness she had seen him speak when bringing men to their death, and the result would have been the same, but he spoke instead with the warmth she knew he had, and she saw in dark grey eyes of the girl that was his daughter, a loss of worry that had been there.

“Thus the words are spoken” Ned said again, this time looking towards the whole assembled crowd “so let us go now, and make our guests and kin welcome.”

***

It had been two days since the Dayne party had arrived, and while their arrival had disrupted life in Winterfell a bit those days, life it seemed was returning to normal. The children, meaning both Robb and Jon, had taken to following their new sister and cousin around and bombarding her with questions and showing her everything in Winterfell in the same way that only children could do. They did so under the watchful eyes of Lyanna Stark, who while she wasn’t exactly a Septa, wasn’t one to suffer the foolishness of children either her own or Ned’s. Indeed she had almost as much a hand in raising Robb as Cat did in raising Jon, and while the two boys may be different in appearance, Robbs red hair and blue eyes in contrast to Jon’s dark hair and grey eyes, they were similar enough in behaviour that Cat had once joked that one mother alone couldn’t handle them. Of course as the time for lessons drew closer, and the responsibilities for the children fell to Maester Luwin, Lyanna would join Cat in her solar to pretend to enjoy practising her needlework. Cat knew that her goodsister was not a great fan of it, just as much as Lyanna knew Cat wasn’t as much a big fan of the expansive walks and rides that she went on with _her_ , but both appreciated the time to each other as it allowed them to, as Lyanna had so succulently put it once, “set the world to rights where the men can’t hear”.

“ _She’s hurt.”_ Came the remembered voice of Petyr Baelish across the gulf of time, spoken not long after he and Ned had arrived at Winterfell so many years ago “S _he has gone through hell, Cat. But I promise you this, she is a Stark, and if you give her a chance, you will never regret it. Family, duty, honour Cat, in that order. Brynden smacked that into us enough as children, don’t give him the excuse to come and do it again._ ”

The daily ritual had come about in time after Cat had first started to live in Winterfell, she wasn’t exactly starved of female company, but the various cooks and servants that made up the staff were not exactly the sort of companionship she could truly have. And while there were some exceptions, after all Dame Poole was a very nice woman, it had still been without any true substance, still a feeling of one superior speaking to a subordinate. Lyanna though, was as close to Cat’s equal as any woman got within Winterfell, and after they had finished being awkward around each other, mainly Lyanna’s own uncertainty as to her role in Winterfell and Cat’s own feelings of being in such an alien place, they had found a lot to compliment each other. Lyanna understood the North, she was a Stark after all, so she knew its customs, its sayings, its ways and over time she had taken Cat as a case to be properly instructed on how to be a Northern woman, on how to be the “Lady of Winterfell”. From her Cat had learned that while a lot of what she had been raised to know would stand to her, indeed due to her being a Southron she wouldn’t be expected to know too much, she was still woefully out of depth in the various and sundry ways that only a woman from the North would know. She had taught Cat what she could of the North, of how to act in ways that would have her husband’s various sworn Lords thinking of her as a proper Lady and not simply as “Ned’s wife”. Yes, Cat had bristled at those early lessons, but when the issue of getting a Sept built in Winterfell had come up, it had been Lyanna’s guidance that had allowed Cat to get it done in a way that silenced any rumblings her religion may have caused, and smooth any feathers that were ruffled.

In return, Cat was doing her best to reform Lyanna into an actual Lady. Oh her goodsister had taken a lot of coaxing and prodding, but she had tearfully explained to Cat one night after Jon’s second naming day that her own foolishness and wildness had cost too much already, and if she was to ever make a second chance at the life she could have, she was going to do a damned sight better job of it. Lyanna was not going to stop being who she was, she had made that much clear to Cat, but if Cat could help her refine her best traits while not smothering who she was, she would take all the help she could get.

So that meant Lyanna pretended to enjoy stitching and Cat pretended to enjoy walking for far too long, and neither said anything when, for example, one Aunt spent the entire time cooing and playing with baby Sansa instead of stitching.

However it appeared that such a bastion of peace and companionship would not survive the weathering of the Dayne’s without some interference, and while Cat moved herself into comfort in her favourite chair, the door to her solar entered, and with it came not just Lyanna, but Ashara as well. Cat did her best to school her expression at the intrusion into what was a normally private affair, and while it took slightly longer than it should have, she managed it. Picking up a lemon cake and placing it in her mouth in haste before she could say anything probably helped as well.

“Catelyn” Lyanna said, she never called her Cat, saying that was Ned’s privilege alone “I hope you don’t mind but I found Lady Ashara sitting alone in the Sept, the boys were continuing their tour to young Alysanne, and I invited her along.”

Cat just nodded, her mouth still chewing, and watched as Lyanna took her usual seat next to where Sansa was busy playing with a wooden horse and Ashara took one close by, but away from both Cat and her child.

“I apologise if my presence is unwanted Lady Stark” Ashara said “I can appreciate that my being here must be somewhat awkward for you.”

It was, Cat realised, the first time Ashara Dayne had actually spoken to her directly since arriving, and as Cat swallowed her food, she looked at the Dornish woman, _really_ looked at her, and instead of seeing what she had feared she would see, the exotic seductress that Ned had fallen for so long ago, she saw a woman who appeared awkward and out of place.

“I will be honest with you Lady Ashara” Cat said after a moment, she kept her voice calm as she spoke ““somewhat awkward” is an understatement to how I feel about your presence. I understand the _circumstances_ that led to you and Ned having a child together, after all had things not gone the way they did, I’d be married to Brandon and you to Ned. That does not mean I am happy that you are here, in my home.”

Ashara looked a little distressed, but she bobbed her head at Cat and began to speak.

“I-”

“I wasn’t finished Lady Ashara” Cat cut across her, and as she did she noticed that Lyanna was looking at her now, an expression mixed of surprise and pride on her face “as I said, I’m not happy that you are here, I do not imagine any wife in my circumstances would be. But as a mother, I can appreciate _why_ you are here, and even respect your coming here to provide support for your daughter.”

Cat picked up half a lemon cake from the plate beside her as she spoke, and offered it to Sansa who took it with glee.

“As such Lady Ashara, I am willing to accept that you are here. I am even willing to accept that you are not here to ensnare my husband and steal him away from me. I may not act like it, but that is because I am who I am, and right now my mind is trying to think for two.”

She emphasized her last words by gently placing her hand on her womb, but she did not break eye contact with Ashara Dayne the whole time she spoke, and after a pregnant silence passed, Ashara Dayne looked back at her and spoke.

“I appreciate that Lady Catelyn” she said, “I am not here because I wish to steal Ned away from you. I would need to be blind to not see that he loves you very much, and while we are being honest, I will admit I have some jealousy at seeing that, but it is simply the jealousy of a woman who wonders what could have been, not what if. I am here simply as a mother to see her daughter will be secure and happy in the world she is about to be left in, nothing more.”

Silence returned to the room then at Ashara’s declaration, but it did not last long as Lyanna spoke into it, absently dangling some string to Sansa’s delight as she did.

“Well then, it would appear that you have both gotten that out into the open then. I am glad, another day of this Southron “courtly drama” and Ned was probably going to have to involve himself in it, and frankly I think we can all agree that it is better he asked me to.”

Against her better judgment, that drew a deep laugh from Cat, as she should have guessed that when faced with the prospect of a fight between his wife and the mother of his child, Ned would seek out his sister’s help without a moments hesitation.

“Yes” Cat said, her voice still tinged with mirth “that is indeed like Ned. Strong and solid as a rock unless it involves an emotionally awkward situation.”

“My brother has been like that for a very long time, even before he wound up in Jon Arryn and Robert Baratheon’s clutches. Oh he has his fun and joyful side of course, but make him face a situation he doesn’t understand and he’ll either go running for help or make a damned fool of himself. I can’t count the number of times he got himself in trouble over that. Of course, the worst was always when he went to Brandon for advice, my brother never seemed to understand that Brandon tended to give him advice to what would be the most entertaining solution, not the correct one.”

Lyanna smiled as she recalled some memory that only she could see, and as per usual when she talked of her eldest brother, there was a twinge of sadness to her expression that Cat knew had also helped to form their bond.

“The best example I can think of” Lyanna said though, powering on “and sorry if this makes things strained again, but the best was at Harrenhall. Ned just couldn’t figure out how the hell to go about asking you for a dance Ashara, so instead of doing what any rational young man would do and ask his smarter sister, he asks Brandon.”

“And Brandon Stark, with a confidence I have seen in so many young men, makes his way over to me and tells me that he’s not interested, but his younger brother is too foolish to approach me himself.”

Ashara spoke, her own voice filled with humour as she did, but then she seemed to catch herself and looked at Cat, her expression suddenly a mask as if she had forgotten who she was sitting with, and suddenly recalled. Cat knew that she could easily have given the other woman a look that would have devastated her, instead she coached her expression to soften, and kept her tone light.

“What happened next then Ashara? It was so long ago that I can barely imagine my husband and that young man being one in the same. I also very much doubt his dancing could have been that much worse than it is now.”

***

She lay in bed under the lighter blankets that a Northern Spring called for, and as she did, she felt herself awaken as the form of her husband entered the bed beside her. He kissed the top of her head and wrapped his arms around her, gently, until his hands rested on her womb.

“You needn’t worry love” she said, her voice slightly groggy, but determined to share some brief intimate time with her husband “Lyanna made us settle the matter like adults.”

Ned’s fingers stiffened for a moment, and then he let out a sigh, his warm breath spreading down her neck and back as he did.

“I suppose she wouldn’t have kept it confidential or subtle, would she?”

“Do not worry, she was still more subtle than Dacey.”

“Not a high barrier that particular one, love.” He spoke as he chuckled at mention of his goodsister, her and Benjen were not married long, but by all accounts what had been a political marriage was turning out quite well.

“Be that as it may, she was right to do what she did. Alysanne is your daughter, Ashara is her mother, and considering the world we live in, holding the past against either of them was me being foolish.”

“I am glad to hear that love, though you know I’d never call you foolish.”

There was a slight jump then from Ned as well as a soft yelp as Cat put a hand forcefully at a spot that her husband would no doubt find quite sensitive.

“Thus dear Ned, you show a wisdom beyond your years. Besides, if I learned anything else today, it is that I need not fear her trying to steal you away from me.”

“Oh? It took a conversation with her to prove something that I’ve been trying to say for years now?”

“Oh yes. Lady Ashara has her eyes fixed upon a different man I’m afraid.”

There was a grunt from Ned.

“Anyone we know?”

“Oh yes. But frankly I feel sorry for him.”

Ned propped himself up on one arm to look down at her, and she turned her head to look at him right back.

“Who is it?”

“Now dear, I can’t tell you that information. But needless to say, she will have some competition.”

Ned moved his hands towards her ribs, lightly massaging them as he did, he looked at her again, his grey eyes a soft hue.

“I understand, the privacy of the stitching room. But surely you have some clue?”

She smiled up at her husband then, he knew how to cheat and make her feel _so_ good to get what he wanted from her, and his massaging fingers helped.

“Only this love. If either her or Lyanna had realised how they were acting, I’d have worried about a serious incident. ”

***

Alysanne and Ashara had been in Winterfell a week, and while there was still a certain degree of awkwardness, Ashara had slotted into life in Winterfell well enough, and considering she would be present for another month before returning south, that was all well and good. But as Maester Luwin entered the hall in a flat run, she and Ned had been holding court over some minor issues, she knew almost at once that something was wrong.

“My Lord, my Lady, I apologise for the intrusion but this can not wait. A raven arrived from King’s Landing, it bears the royal seal.”

As he handed the message to Ned, Cat could see the seal was broken, which was only fair as Luwin was trusted to sort through all raven messages, even from the crown. She watched as Ned scanned it, and felt a growing sense of dread as his eyes hardened into polished granite.

“Get this message relayed to the Noble houses. Make sure it goes to Benjen, Lord Reed and Lord Manderly first. Inform Lord Manderly he is to take his ships south to King’s Landing, we’ll be taking the roads to the Westerlands but his ships will be valuable once the ground is secure. Also make sure to alert all the western holdings to be aware of possible raiders.”

“Ned” Cat said, more worry than she had planned on entering her voice “what is going on?”

He turned to look at her, and as he did his face was a grim mask.

“Balon Greyjoy has risen in rebellion against King Stannis and declared himself King of the Iron Isles. A fleet of Ironborn sacked Lannisport burning the Lannister fleet and much of the town. His Grace has called _all_ of us to arms.”

She placed a single hand on her womb then as Ned turned back to Luwin to fire out more orders. She had hoped that Robert’s Rebellion would be the last war that she would see for a very long time, but it appeared that the gods had other plans, and her Ned was being dragged away from her again.


	30. Chapter 28

**Chapter 28**

**Petyr XX**

The two blades moved away from each other, not in any formal salute or movement, but simply as any two blades that had met and now needed to move to other positions would. He didn’t bother trying to adjust his grip, he had yet to build up enough of a sweat to worry about that, instead he brought his diminutive blade back down into the same low guard he had already had it in. His opponent was not particularly quick or strong, and even Petyr had a height advantage, but that didn’t matter as he was pulling his movements quite severely, after all, one does not throw everything they have against a nearly seven year old girl. He was keeping said young girl, and the slightly too large for her, but laughably small for an adult wooden training sword, on his right hand side as she started to pace towards his left. That was a good sign, it meant she was learning to use blindspots and try to get into them, unfortunately for her, knowing to use them, and being able to use them were as different as night and day, and while she was quick for her age, she still was just a child, so when the inevitable swing came in on his left, he was able to bring his own child’s training sword up to catch it again.

“Better Pol” he said, and then lowered his own blade to beside him at rest “much better. The problem though is that you showed me far too early what you were going to do, do you understand?”

She nodded her head vigorously and looked at him with the same eyes that always reminded him of her mother, dark pools that struck with the emotions of the pain and sadness she had possessed in her last days.

“Yes father, I understand. But how am I supposed to be able to do things if you keep seeing them coming?”

“That Pol, is part of the point of these lessons. You wanted to learn the sword like the boys do” he said, reminding her of the request she had made on her last birthday “and as I told you then, it is going to be hard.”

“I know, but still...” She said, her voice trailing off into the tones of a child who just didn’t understand why the world wasn’t easy. Petyr sighed at hearing that tone and tucked the small wooden sword into his belt to move over and crouch down to his daughter.

“Things are unfair and hard in life, but if you grow to be half the woman you could be, then my dearest Polgara I know you’ll laugh at those challenges in time. What we are doing now is just getting you ready before handing you over to Master Qo to train you the same as he does the others.”

“And given a few years Mistress Pol, you’ll be beating your father as black and blue as I do.” The retort came from the smiling scarred face of Master Qo himself, and as he spoke he did with a voice filled with a lilt and twang that to anyone from only Westeros would have said came from the Summer Isles, but to Petyr’s refined interdimensional ears also sounded strongly Afro-Carribean.

Petyr however turned to give his master-at-arms a decidedly pained look, which only made the bastard smile even wider as Pol let out one of the small delicate giggles that Petyr did so enjoy to hear.

“Great. Outnumbered by my instructor and my daughter, what is the world coming to? You know any other Lord in the Seven Kingdoms and you two would both be in serious danger, offending ones ego like that.”

“With all due respect My Lord, I wouldn’t be residing in the household of any other Lord in this cold hostile land. And judging from how some of your peers act, I doubt your daughter would be enjoying such a comfortable life either.”

Qo had a habit of not filtering what he said around the children, and while that was a problem in the “teenagers and children asking awkward questions” sense, it was a habit that was generally harmless so Petyr didn’t bother even trying to chastise him over it. Still though, he felt Pol move slightly closer to him in the same sort of sadness she always did when it came to implications about her past. She was still only a small child after all, but in Westeros, it didn’t matter how young she was, someone was always willing to refer to her bastardry as a means of putting her down, and while he knew that wasn’t how Qo intended it, if anything the Summer Islander probably meant it as a compliment that Petyr actually went _back_ to Braavos to act responsibly, instead of taking the easy approach and leaving her, but still, some words could cut, even to a child.

He turned to look at Pol now and gave her his own wide smile, and as she focused her attention back on him, he spoke softly.

“Well then, here endeth the lesson I’m afraid dear. So why don’t you go return the two practice blades to the rack and go see if you can rustle up a small lunch before Maester Thyman starts his lessons?”

The brief darkness that had loomed in her eyes went away then as she smiled at him, or at the mention of the word “lunch” anyway, and nodded vigorously as she took the sword he offered to her. With that, she practically turned into a blur to go over to the weapon rack and return the two blades before disappearing entirely.

“Sometimes I worry that you are too soft on that girl My Lord.”

Petyr turned back to Qo without any speed or heat, he just shrugged at the other man as he stepped over towards where the master-at-arms had both his and Petyr’s own training swords waiting.

“Maybe I am, but she is my daughter so I will be as soft as I please. Besides, if my life among the twin Trouts at Riverrun taught me anything, it is that girl’s only get worse before they get better.”

He picked up his practice blade, the hilt fitting his hand like a well worn glove, and he moved towards the other side of the practice ground, swinging the blade in a few familiar motions to loosen up and adjust for the much heavier and differently balanced weight than the child’s sword he had been using.

“Boys of course My Lord, they never get better do they?”

“Of course not Master Qo, that’s why the Gods created daughters, to punish us for our sins.”

He said nothing else then, Qo liked to get him to talk to distract himself, and considering the practice bouts that Petyr had with the Summer Islander had, on a couple of occasions, wound up with Maester Thyman having to set bones, concentration was a necessity. Which was good, as the Summer Islander came on like a tropical storm from a clear sky. Typically, the warriors of the Summer Isles were known for their archery and their spear fighting, but when one had been raised almost from birth to be a pirate, they typically picked up the sword, and picked it up very quickly. The swords they used were also not they type that was typically seen in Westeros, being more in line with a scimitar than the typical long/broad/short sword types that were common to Westerosi battlefields. Theoretically, that was due to the fact that Summer Islanders normally didn’t have to fight against heavily armoured opponents and as such could favour a more slashing and cutting weapon, whereas Westerosi swords could have to deal with armoured enemies and as such, the sheer blunt power behind such blades was better suited to the needs of the Seven Kingdoms. Which would be true, except that most Westerosi levies tended to be armoured, if with anything, boiled leather and maybe rusty mail. Proper household troops wore stronger and better maintained armour, definitely, but they were not the majority of what was on the field, and as such a more directly cutting weapon was far from useless. Which was part of the reason why, when Qo’s own Ironwood sword came blurring towards Petyr’s left, it wasn’t met by a training longsword.

The sword previously owned by Jon Connington currently hung above the old shield that Petyr had ordered retrieved from the Drearfort and hung in his, for lack of a better term, working study. It had been more than serviceable eight years ago during the events of the Rebellion, but with eight years of downtime, he had finally been able to get his hands on a sword that he _really_ knew how to use, and so Qo wasn’t even remotely surprised when Petyr caught the blow on his own Ironwood sword, an almost perfect copy of the real sharpened steel one he wore the rest of the time, and rode it down the single edge towards the single knuckle hand guard to flick it off in an attempt to force an opening. He had nearly driven the poor blacksmith responsible for making the steel one up the wall with his insistences on getting it just right, but when a properly trained professional craftsman is both challenged, and paid for the challenge, they would perform, and so Petyr had his own version of his old 1796 Light Pattern Cavalry Sabre back in his hands. He had found the one he had owned in another world as a very lucky antique shop purchase when he was only beginning re-enacting, and as such he had learned how to carry and wield it as best he could, including more than a few lost mornings dedicated to simply attending lessons. It had taken him a lot of beatings with the Ironwood training swords, the closest thing to just dulled steel possible, to get back to the level he had been on another world, but he was damn confident in his abilities, and as Qo repisted from the attempted forced opening, bringing his blade in remarkably quickly back to a block, Petyr felt a slight smile cross his lips.

“Oh yes chalkman” Qo said, his own lips peeling back in a humourless smile as they did “start smiling because you can do one trick. I saw many a man like you start smiling like that, right before they were food for the sharks.”

Petyr didn’t rise to the bate, instead he simply returned his own practice sabre to a low guarded position and waited. He was not going to lose today’s practice fight, he had had five years of getting his ass kicked almost daily by Qo, thus was his curse for saving the man from a Myrish slaver, but today it was going to change, today he was going to win.

***

Petyr was gingerly rubbing one hand on his, confirmed by Maester Thymann to be blessedly, bruised ribs, to match his bruised ego, as he, and his small escort of men in black and dark green colours, made their way down the road towards Gulltown itself. His oh so creatively named home, “Baelmanor” was firmly behind him as he was preparing to go and do his usual days work, and while it did mean a certain degree of commuting, he lived less than two hour’s ride outside Gulltown these days. Granted, it used to be a fair amount longer, considering the state of the roads that he would have needed to navigate, but instead of poorly maintained sod and occasional loose stone under his horses hooves, there was now smooth, cut, adequately drained stone roads. They would have seemed somewhat out of place to Emperor Trajan of course, but more because of subtle differences than anything else, for example, the Romans never _really_ had to consider drainage as much as Petyr had been needed to, that was not to say they hadn’t considered it, just that when put against the sort of rain and climate that was native to the Vale, especially as close to the coast as Petyr lived, there had needed to be a more comprehensive drainage system put in place. The road he travelled on also lacked the elliptical slope of a Roman road, or more accurately possessed one, only to a much smaller degree, allowing a flatter wider surface, something that had taken a bit of innovating to tackle but hadn’t been a challenge for raw muscle power. The road would have been nothing less than sure extravagance if it had been built for no purpose other than to simply make his daily commute easier, but it hadn’t been built for that reason, or at lest not solely for that reason if he was honest.

The sound of hammers, handsaws, foremen and men at work all but surrounded him, as at this point towards Gulltown, men continued to work on what was, again creatively named, “Newtown” to bring the plans and designs Petyr had either come up with, or had underlings adapt from his thoughts. It was a huge undertaking, as it would grow Gulltown by another third of the size it had been when Petyr had arrived eight years ago, but it was an extremely necessary addition, the various guild-masters and merchantmen that had made up the municipal government of Gulltown had understood that readily enough, between the veritable explosion of growth the town had seen over the last near-decade as well as the catastrophic damage the fire two years ago had done, the town needed to be allowed to expand. Of course that had wound up rubbing the two factions, who still liked to delude themselves into thinking they were the most powerful ones in Gulltown, the wrong way. But Petyr had _plenty_ of experience in irritating the Graftons and the Gulltown-Arryns, he had been doing it since almost day one when the Graftons had already been pissed at him being given his appointment, and the Gulltown-Arryns had quickly learned that he was, as far as they were concerned, in-corruptible and not there simply to make life easy for them on behalf of their more noble cousins.

It had taken nearly the first two years to drill into the heads of everyone involved, but seizing the cargo of those who attempted to bribe him to look the other way, cracking down heavily on dockside “accidents” that allowed easy theft, publicly flogging the first six men who had been tempted to go back to accepting bribes and looking the other way once they figured he was distracted, as well as hiring in new locals while finding men who had served under him during the Rebellion, had gone a long way to making his point. It had taken a lot of Petyr’s time over the first two years, and barring his two brief trips to Braavos, during his second year to both raise capital and take responsibility for his actions, and a third briefer one to White Harbour to scrounge up some of his former underlings, almost all of his time had been spent working on improving the docks of Gulltown. It hadn’t just been stamping down on corruption, smuggling and theft though, his work had also included increasing the literacy of the various customs inspectors and clerical staff that handled the non-manual labour parts of the dock. He had introduced double-entry book-keeping, which not only made embezzling harder but also made the books more transparent and allowed him to be able to show them to merchant captains who had complaints. His favourite achievement at the docks though, had been the introduction of what had started as only three warehouses, but now made up almost a quarter of Gulltown’s waterfront storage, and that was the “Gulltown Bonded Freeport”, an area built up to be a free port allowing the storage and transfer of goods without the payment of duties.

It had been a bit of a gamble, but it had paid off as while customs standards were relaxed, so long as the goods were not brought into Gulltown proper, between the reasonable warehouse storage fees and the amount of business such an idea attracted, being as Gulltown was, almost perfectly situated to serve as a hub of commerce coming into Westeros from Essos, or vice versa, the Freeport more than made up for any potential lost revenue. Its implementation did bite into Petyr’s own bottom line, his income from what John Arryn had given him was a quarter of all revenues collected by the docks, which was part of the reason why House Grafton had been very sorry to see their position there go. But the economy of Gulltown as a whole benefited, and that was the sort of consequence that made Petyr’s _other_ ventures make up for any potential piddling tax revenue he might have lost.

Of course picking those particular ventures had been a potential minefield in and of itself, as while yes, he could have brought along all sorts of fun and inventive creations from another world and time, there was the inherent problem that innovation did not exist in a vacuum, as any innovation big enough to make him oodles of cash in a real quick manner would have undoubtedly rocked the boat from “choppy waters” all the way up to “now we are a wooden submarine”. Gunpowder was a no go. Introducing that, even if he _could_ get the recipe right in the first hundred or so tries, would basically turn the entire concept of war in Westeros on its head, even if no-one figured on the idea of sticking some and a projectile inside a bell and creating a cannon, and the myriad number of other firearms that would follow, simply having gunpowder to take down any walled fortress in Westeros would change the entire “march, siege, march, siege, march, occasional open battle” pattern of war as suddenly sieges became a much swifter affair. The other “big ticket item” that he could have gone with, the printing press, was a less obviously disruptive innovation, but to make it profitable, it would need to print a book people would want to buy, which in Westeros would be the Seven Pointed Star, and allowing copies of holy books to get out into circulation amongst the lay people, especially with a corrupt at the top church like the Faith of the Seven, would more than likely end with someone nailing ninety-five thesis to a Sept door somewhere, and Petyr could do without the Westerosi version of the Thirty Years War.

So instead of running off and bringing the renaissance to Westeros, he had to find different ways to make money. That meant getting into trade, and that meant finding a way to essentially monetize Gulltown, which was not an easy task considering that Gulltown, like the Vale in general, was essentially Scotland without the charm. Rocky ground, marauding bands of Highlanders/Mountainmen, stark beauty to the surroundings and no real easy abundance of the sort of natural resources that mattered in the here and now, outside quarries and a few small mines that was. The only real resource available to be monetized was the sheep, and unfortunately Petyr wasn’t a trained student of agriculture and textile industry. It would have taken an extraordinarily capable man to figure out how to make money in this situation. Luckily, Petyr had two men who already had to draw upon.

Not for the first time since he started getting things moving did he thank his lucky stars that his college degree had come with a compulsory economics track, a track that had been based on the theory behind economics. Even better, it had been based on the _history_ of the theory behind economics, and so Petyr had been forced to study John Law and Nicholas “Unless-Jesus-Christ-Had-Died-For-Thee-Thou-Hadst-Been-Damned” Barbon. He had built upon their experiences as best he could, and applied them as best he could to the world he had found himself in, and so as he and his party handed their horses off to the stable workers at the “Gulltown Savings and Land Bank” he smiled a bit as he began the familiar walk towards his office. John Law, in the simplest terms possible, had been a genius who had reasoned that money essentially didn’t mean wealth, it only existed to facilitate trade, and that true wealth existed within trade. He had also been a major proponent of central banking and the abolishment of feudal tax practices, as well as the issuing of paper money. Petyr had no interest in the whole “issuing paper money” aspect, no point sprinting before he could walk, but the other two could be _very_ powerful tools if he used them correctly. Nichols Barbon had, among others and simply put, invented the concepts of fire insurance and mortgages, and while the former of the two had only started to be a real earner for Petyr after the great fire had swept through the poorer section of Gulltown two years ago, the latter had long since been both Petyr’s main way of earning money as well as the main avenue to allow the economy of Gulltown to veritably explode in growth, and allow Petyr’s own control to increase as people inevitably defaulted. Barbon had also recognized the sheer potential power in the manipulation of fashionable trends with regards to driving supply and demand, and it had been that experience that had allowed Petyr’s own smaller “craft industries” to turn the first profits he had needed to found his bank. Petyr had taken items and goods that were already available, with two exceptions, and simply refined the methods that were available in Westeros in ways that would seem only natural to anyone who looked at them. His first port of call had been spirits, the alcoholic kind, not the ghost kind, and his approach had been to simply round up the people who already made spirits, and give them the opportunity to make _more_.

The whiskey was still chugging along, as while he had needed to start selling from barrel’s that had only aged as little as one year, the sheer quantity had been enough to make up for what he viewed as a lack of quality. Luckily, whiskey distillery’s on their downtime were perfectly able to make gin, or fire-water as it was typically referred to in the here and now, and that didn’t need to age and sold in larger quantities again. Finally there was brandy, which, while he had needed to reach how to make it in a round about way, he had known that it was essentially distilled wine but only that, was probably his best seller among the upper classes of society. Of course, Gulltown alone would not have been enough to make such an industry sustainable, so he had needed to come up with his own way to ship the stuff, so that had meant the creation of the “Narrow Seas Trading Company” which had allowed him to break into the markets of King’s Landing, White Harbour, Plankeytown and the Essosi markets, as well as some fun with naval designs.

It had been the access to the Essosi markets that had allowed him to snag a couple of apprentice glassmakers from Myr, although head-hunting them had been an expensive proposition, but still cheaper than if he had tried recruiting journeymen or even a master. He went after apprentices because he didn’t need them to make any pieces of art, just to make small plates of nice clear glass. The reason for that had been one of the two innovations he _had_ introduced, simply because he knew that they would make a lot of money by being a highly desirable item. Non-sunlight lighting in Westeros was simply terrible. Candles were of often wildly varying quality, and while Maester Thyman had been receptive to Petyr’s questions about oil lanterns, the best examples he had been able to rustle up had been mediocre at best. So Petyr had improvised, and in turn had created a type of lantern that was a simple, four sided metal box with plates of glass to allow light to travel through it, with one of the sides functioning as a door to allow the lighting of the wick within, a wick that was placed into a reservoir of oil. It was no real innovation in theory, outside of the design, but the glass magnified the light and, much more importantly, the oil used by the lamp was different as well, and that had been the only thing he had really “invented”.

Whaling had not been an industry in Westeros before Petyr had come along, well, not outside remote parts of the North anyway, but considering the sheer amount of clean burning oil that could be extracted from boiling whale blubber, Petyr had turned to it without any hesitation. The oil produced was what really made Petyr’s lanterns a hot button item, as Petyr sold the oil by the, rather small, barrel load and charged a strong premium for it as well. It also didn’t work particularly well in the older style oil lamps, mainly due to the smell and the faster burning rate, so it made it much more fashionable to get one of Pety’s ones if you wanted to make the most of what you were already spending a lot of money on to buy. He had also managed to pick up a handful of the surviving pyromancers from King’s Landing and give them an opportunity to earn a living by experimenting with the oil. And after only a bit of intense prodding, they had managed to start making soap from the oil, mainly by working with the oil, lye and a few other components. The soap was also a rather fashionable item Petyr had been able to capitalize on, even if it was coarser than anything he would have called soap in another world.

The goods the industries he owned, some quieter than others, were carried by the Narrow Seas Trading Company to every single port that fit within the name. And they carried them with a speed and haste that no other company that plied the Narrow Sea could offer, mainly because he had all but locked Davos Seaworth, Denis Cartwright and Zun Qo into a room together for two weeks to figure out how to make a ship that would have made a 16th Century Dutchmen feel at home in the form of a “not-quite-a” Fluyt. Davos, on loan from Stannis while Renly Baratheon learned the ropes of being Master of Ships, had quickly managed to learn to work with Qo, and his own practical sea-handling abilities and experiences meshed with what Qo knew about the construction and design of the Summer Island’s “Red Ships”, which were essentially Caravel’s as far as Petyr could tell. They had both handled the practical realities of the design issues from a sailing point of view, but it had been Cartwright, the premier ship-builder, who hadn’t been shoved up his own arse at birth, in Gulltown, that had needed to figure out how to make it into reality. Their work together had resulted in the first of Petyr’s “Essosi Runners”, a ship built to carry as much cargo at as high a speed at the sacrifice of crew numbers. The first ship, a mosaic of which Petyr walked over in the main lobby of his bank everyday, was the “West Wind”, and while she had possessed more than a few teething problems, she had done the job she was built for perfectly, and shaved two weeks off the standard crossing time to Braavos without any loss of freight space. This allowed the class not only to earn money bringing Petyr’s goods to market, but also to charge premium rates for “special” delivery orders due to their speed. Petyr now owned no less than a dozen of his “Runners” as well as a further two dozen of various other ships, typically of older designs that were used to ship more “traditional” goods along the Westerosi coastal routes, and already Cartwright and his associates were hard at work designing a “better” class to replace the Runners with.

“My Lord Baelish?”

The voice spoke with a slight trepidation, as if it was very sorry to be intruding on his thoughts and also drawing the attention of a social superior upon the voices owner. Which was to be expected, the barely sixteen year old boy who owned the voice still hadn’t developed self-confidence and doubtless was having flashbacks to the veritable riot act his mother had read him about not annoying “Kind” Lord Baelish when he had gotten his current job. Rickon Mason was the nephew of the late Bran Mason, the capable apprentice masonry worker that Petyr had leaned heavily on during the Rebellion and Petyr’s time in charge of Ned’s logistics. Bran Mason had not been able to return home, but the story of his life, as much of a story as there was to it, _had_ returned to White Harbour when the other soldiers that had served under Petyr had gone home. It was under such an auspice that when Petyr had arrived at White Harbour to round up some of his people, that he had been confronted by a woman slightly older than him with three children in tow, and a noticeable busted lip and black eye. Her name had been Elyna, she was Bran Mason’s sister, and her husband was a nasty piece of work. She had presented herself in the hopes that Petyr might just take her eldest son, Rickon to Gulltown, to get him some way out of what promised to be a very hard life. Petyr instead had offered to take her and her children to Gulltown, and get them set up in memory of her brothers service to him. She had been blown away, accepted, and now worked as the head maid at Baelmanor, with her children receiving an education and with Rickon now a “clerical apprentice” in Petyr’s bank. She and her children were not the first charity cases that Petyr had taken in, nor where they the last, but as he looked at the only _slightly_ shrinking away form of Rickon Mason, Petyr found that such acts of kindness, and their outcomes, were easy to live with.

“Yes Rickon?”

“Sorry sir, I was saying that I have your schedule for the day.”

“I see, drew the short straw again?”

Rickon just gave him a look like a goldfish out of water for a moment, and Petyr just chuckled at the younger man's reaction before he spoke again.

“It is just an expression Rickon. Now what do I have?”

“Well it is a good and bad day sir. You have the meeting with Septon Plumm and Maester Aldo first, that is followed by a meeting with Lord Grafton with regards to the works being done over in the Linen district, after that you have a free lunch, then there is the meeting with Masters Shatterstone and Chalk about the wall extensions to cover Newtown, then finally Mistress Arryn wishes for a meeting with regards to the incident with the Crested Wind ship that was seized a week ago. After that you are free for the evening, so you should be back home in time for dinner.”

Petyr nodded along as he made his way into his office, although at the news that he would meeting the matriarch of the Gulltown Arryns, he had to resist the urge to groan aloud. That woman existed for nothing else in this world except tormenting Petyr, simply because at the end of the day her surname meant he couldn’t do what he truly wished he _could_ do and wrap her up in chains and dump her off a ship halfway to Braavos.

“Well then, no time like the present to start I suppose. Send in the Septon and the Maester, the sooner I get that out of the way, the sooner I can get Grafton’s mewling over and done with.”

***

The meetings went as well as Petyr could have hoped, which was to say that only some of them had made him want to rip his hair out. The first meeting had gone well, mainly because any meetings involving Petyr, the Church and the representative of Oldtown was one that started with Petyr already having an ally in the corner. One of the things he had cultivated since returning to Gulltown was a reputation for piety, not to the point of fanaticism of course, but he was seen at the Sept at least once every week, praying and making offerings to the Seven, especially the Smith. He also had made arrangements early that ten percent of all money raised from seized cargo was dispersed to various charitable organisations throughout Gulltown, that those same organisations were also all religious run to one degree or another, was another way of building up his character to make him appealing to the Church. It had been that reputation and well regard that had allowed him to enlist the Church on his side when he had presented the proposal for what he planned to be the “College of Gulltown”, mainly by throwing in a seminary to allow religious studies to the grounds and promising a position on the board that would run such a location. Not one stone had even been dressed or laid at the large site earmarked for the proposal in Newtown, as Petyr had needed to deal with the pushback from Oldtown.

The Citadel had not been exactly thrilled at learning of Petyr’s proposal to build the college, but considering the number of students who went there and didn’t become maesters, Petyr had been able to get ahead of any arguments that only those who became full Maesters should have access to a full education. He had also pointed out that he wasn’t planning on supplanting the Citadel as the source of Maesters, merely he was spearheading the construction of a facility to allow study and education of a much narrower path than the grand avenues that the Citadel taught. They, in the form of Pycelle, had dug in their heels over the issue, but contrary to Petyr’s darkest suspicions, it wasn’t due to some elaborate conspiracy against technology and education, it was simply due to manpower. The Citadel at Oldtown had been operating for so long that it had accumulated enough written information to put it on par with the Great Library of Alexandria, but maintaining and preserving even the most “essential” parts of that vast catalogue was an intense and laborious process. One that was only really possible by making the men lowest on the poll do it, and the concern now was that Pety’s scheme would deny them such a pool of capable manpower and allow their records to fall deeper into disrepair. To settle that, he offered to share the workload with the college, to make it part of the education given to include the copying of tomes, and as his first meeting of the day had proven, it had been a satisfying proposal.

His second meeting had been with Lord Gerold Grafton, and had been mercifully short. House Grafton was no friends of his, not since he had made it clear he had no intention of marrying the poor girl they had tried to throw at him, and then there had been the whole entire “two attempted assassinations” business from Petyr’s third year. But relations had improved from there due to the fire and the aftermath, as well as Petyr’s willingness to extend bank loans to the Grafton family. It had been those loans that had led to today’s meeting, mainly due to the Grafton families involvement in overseeing the installation of improved sanitation systems in the Linen Quarter of Gulltown, a quarter that happened to include their own Townhouse. There had also been some discussion about installation of glass windows in said townhouse and whether it would be possible to extend their current loans to cover such a renovation, Petyr had agreed, he had a firm enough grasp on their debts at the moment that giving them more rope to hang themselves would be easy.

His lunch, a later affair than most peoples, had been quietly taken in his own town-house, a building that had seen almost as much renovation as anywhere else in Gulltown, and he had then gone to meet with the Guildmasters of the Masons guild who were tasked with the challenge of seeing the construction of new fortifications around the extensions to Gulltown, as well as some proposals Petyr had asked them to do up with regards to expanding the docks of Gulltown. And then there was his meeting with Jeyne Arryn.

He was back in his office when the silver haired, almost frighteningly similar to John Arryn in appearance, elderly woman was ushered into it. He of course rose from his seat and offered her a chair, as well as a beverage, before shutting the door to the office itself to make sure their meeting was a private affair.

“Lady Jeyne” he said as he settled into his own chair “how can I help you today?”

She gave him a look that made her feelings towards him abundantly clear, mainly that he was somewhere below what she might tread into a room on her shoe, but she could also see that Petyr wasn’t in the mood to start out with a yelling match.

“The Crested Wind had its cargo seized a week ago. I want it released.”

She spoke tersely, her voice quiet and almost difficult to hear, but as she spoke Petyr spread his arms out in a wide apologetic manner.

“My Lady, I’m afraid we both know that is impossible. The Crested Wind had its cargo seized due to attempting to bring goods into Gulltown proper without paying proper dues or licenses. Now it did produce paperwork for some of the goods, and they were of course released back, but the rest remains the property of the Gulltown Port Authority until such time it is sold.”

“At which point you and the gaggle of ne'er-do-wells you have around you have gotten your cut.”

She spoke with a tone that would sour milk, and Petyr didn’t even so much as flinch, it wasn’t the first time she had thrown this at him, and likely wouldn’t be the last until she was cold and buried. At first, it had been assumed that Petyr was just being dumb in seeking bribes when he had started seizing cargoes due to attempted smuggling, and the Gulltown Arryns had attempted to pay him, as well as throw _another_ poor girl at him. His response had seen them throw their own assassination attempt at him in his third year. Which had suited him, three heads on spikes in the town square with a message saying “ _I’ll only need one_ ” hanging from them had been much stronger than just two.

“My “cut” he made air quotes with his fingers at the word cut “as you have so delightfully put it again is still the same as it has always been, ten percent of funds raised from the selling of seized goods. The rest goes to the workers, the upkeep of the town and the poor. If you have a problem with that, we can go discuss it with the poor if you’d like? Perhaps we can talk about the origins of the fire that destroyed their homes?”

She at least had the decency to blanch at that, as Petyr reminder her of the sword of Damocles that hung over her head. It had been a botched arson attempt on Petyr’s Whale Oil operation that had started the fire two years ago, and while her and her family had stayed home to stay safe, Petyr had _led_ the efforts to fight the fires, because _his_ people were in danger. It had been the Graftons who had tried to start the following rumours that the fire was Petyr’s fault, and it had been Petyr and a group of Septons that had stopped the poorer people of Gulltown from ripping the Grafton family limb from limb for daring to attack “Kind” Lord Petyr in such a manner. He still held the evidence that accused the Gulltown Arryns of the attack, mainly signed confessions from the surviving arsonists, as well as the arsonists themselves held back near the Drearfort where the locals where encouraged to keep them from escaping, and alive. His threat two years ago stood, fuck with him, and he’d have her before her Cousins in a heartbeat.

“I apologise” she said, the words coming from between gritted teeth “I spoke with haste.”

“That is perfectly fine Lady Jeyne, now, how about we act like mature adults and you inform me exactly what it is from this ship that it is you are looking for? I’m not proposing an arrangement, but at the very least, I should be able to see to it that you are given the first chance to purchase the item.”

She looked at him then, and while he was schooling his face to be affable and friendly, he felt he wasn’t quite keeping the expression of smug satisfaction out of his eye.

“There was a shipment of sourleaf. My son is fond of the stuff, so I had arranged with the captain of the ship to bring it in.”

“Ah” Petyr said, allowing himself to lean back a bit in his seat “I see. Well that would definitely have been seized, and for what little it is worth to you, I don’t agree with it being seized as it was. But the King’s orders are his orders.”

Stannis Baratheon hadn’t exactly let power go to his head, but between his ordering the closure of the brothels of King’s Landing, and his proscription of sourleaf, there was definite room to assume he was exercising his controls a bit more than Petyr particularly liked. The former had been due to his own personal reasons he wasn’t getting into, but rumour had it that an event involving a blonde prostitute jeering him and Queen Cersei, something about her looking better and being better too, had led to the royal decree. The sourleaf had been part of a general proscription of the selling of certain goods to the general public due to their potential to corrupt to well being of the people. Alcohol, luckily for Petyr, had been exempt, but anyone who didn’t wear a Maesters chain was no longer supposed to have access to, among others, sourleaf and milk of the poppy. Petyr didn’t agree with those proscriptions, mainly because of the impossibility of enforcing them in the world, but Stannis was sticking to his guns. It also meant that Gulltown’s own red light district had gotten a boost, and a fair degree of it fell under the category of “quietly owned” parts of Petyr’s money making avenues. But judging from Jeyene Arryn’s expression, Petyr’s own disagreement with the proscriptions wasn’t worth the breath he’d used to express them.

“Be that as it may, I understand that such an item is to be sold with restriction only. Our own maester is currently busy dealing with a small outbreak of Breakbone fever further into the mountains, and as such will not be able to purchase it.”

Petyr just nodded at her, and also allowed his face to show a brief grimace at the outbreak, Breakbone fever was a nasty little disease, and a small outbreak of it four years ago had led to him closing the port for three months and let him get some serious exposure to its effects on people. It had partially been responsible for his push towards improved sanitation inside Gulltown itself.

“I will pray for his success. And I understand your situation. I do not, and never have condoned illicit deals” he managed to say the sentence with a straight face “but I think I have a solution. I will have the sourleaf sold to my own Maester, but with instructions for the delivery to be brought to your town-house. This shall be a one off thing though My Lady, never to happen again, but I shall not seek any form of recompense for it, barring you paying the cost of the good itself. Agreed?”

He held his hand out to her, and after a moment of hesitation she took it, but as she did Petyr slightly tightened his grip and looked her dead in the eye.

“And if this is some attempt to use my better nature to ensnare me, remember every other dark day that people have tried such actions already.”

He smiled as he spoke, but he allowed no warmth or joy into his voice, and after a slight nod from her, he released her hand.

***

The ride back to Baelmanor was made slightly unpleasant by a rain squall coming in off the sea, but the roads continued to function as designed so at least he was only wet and not covered in mud by the time he returned home. His country home was not what anyone would call a castle, especially with actual castles to compare it to, but that was not to say he had decided to just throw defensiveness out the window and call it a day. His home more resembled a Château, as in a large fortified house, than a fortification that was also a house, a minor distinction if taken on face value, but a major one in functionality. He was fairly confident in his ability to hold off any marauding bands that might try to invest his home into a siege, and do so in style and comfort. It also possessed something approaching central heating, basically due to him tapping into his friendship with Ned to get Maester Luwin to send down some drawings of how the piping in Winterfell worked and marrying that information to what he knew of how the Romans had done it, as well as flushing toilets. The toilets were of course rather crude, but they were leagues ahead of anything else anyone had.

He handed the reigns of his horse over to the stable-boy, John Farrier, son of Edmure Farrier who was Petyr’s stable master, and nodded to the lad as he turned away and started to make his way into his home from the open courtyard and training yard. He took the steps easily, and entered through the doorway to find himself conspicuously alone, which only meant one thing in his experience. He quickly side-stepped to his right and twirled, one hand making sure his swords scabbard didn’t fly off his hip, and briefly saw the small form that flew through the air were his legs had been, and at the disappointed look on Pol’s face he started to laugh.

“Nice try kiddo, but you would be better off waiting somewhere other than the hall if you want to get the drop on me.”

That, of course, was when the water from the first floor balcony poured on him and he heard giggling from above him. He gave the now smiling Pol a stern look, and spoke aloud projecting his voice.

“That was a lucky guess, and of course you wouldn’t dare have drafted those poor Knapper twins into something like this would you? After all their mother would be most upset if she found them doing something like this.”

The mention of Mrs Knapper, the cook of Baelmanor and mother of a veritable brood of children running in ages from four to fourteen, was enough to cause the giggling to stop abruptly. The Knapper twins, a pair of fraternal twin boys, were two of Pol’s loyalist cohorts, and usually if a prank was going, they were involved. Mrs Knapper also had a very traditional view on what dictated proper punishment, and while Petyr’s rule was that parents punished their own children meant that Pol didn’t have to worry about the switch, the Knapper boys did.

“I mean” he said, continuing to speak “if I was to go up those stairs in a moment, and see anyone near where this attack on myself was carried out, I would be honour bound to inform their parent.”

What followed then was a shuffling of feet and the sounds of near-sprinting that left Petyr and Pol alone in the greeting hall almost at once.

“I’m sorry Father” she started “but I got them to do it. They didn’t want to, I swear.”

“Polgara Baelkin,” he said, using the parents trick of the full name “I have told you about lying to me. We both know those boys would have been entirely on side of dumping water on me, or anyone else for that matter, simply because they’d find it fun. However, considering it appears to only be well water, I’m going to overlook their part in this egregious assault on myself. You however, are on raven duty for the next two days, I will be informing Maester Thyman over dinner.”

She looked down from him now, and Petyr had to fight not to laugh at the sullen expression on her face. He didn’t mind his daughters occasional tricks and pranks, he had after all been a child twice, but still he had to be a parent on occasion, and this went a bit above and beyond a simple jape, if someone other than him had been the victim of this prank, things could have gotten serious. He let her look sullen for a few more moments and then spoke.

“Now though, why don’t you tell me about your day while I get ready for dinner?”

***

Pol’s regaling of her day lasted from the hall to Petyr’s room, where behind a screen, he had changed into some dry clothes as she told him how her lessons had gone. She had finally finished telling him about what she had been up to, and answering his own return questions, when he sat for dinner with the rest of his household. His approach to meals in Baelmanor was more akin to Ned’s than his raising in Riverrun had been, mainly in that while he still ate at a head table with Pol and a rotating list of servants flanking him, mainly so that they could discuss various aspects of the household on a daily changing basis, he still ate with all of his people in the same room. His meals where actually rather simple affairs, by noble Westerosi standards anyway, and while they weren’t particularly lacking for anything in the major food groups, the variety tended to be rather narrow, but it suited him fine, and considering he ate the same as his people, no-one complained, indeed there was always a very positive and talkative attitude to meals in Baelmanor, which suited him well. He need not always take part in conversations, but he was not Roose Bolton to demand nothing but silence from those that surrounded him. The meals also helped to remind him every day of who it was that lived in his home with him, and as he allowed his eye to wonder over the people, names and backstories poured into him. That man had served under Petyr in the Rebellion, that woman had been hired because he had needed someone to make clothes for Pol, that man had lost an arm in an industrial accident at one of Petyr’s properties but was a dab hand at caring for horses, that woman and her partner had escaped the silent sisters after they had been found “involved” with one another.

They all had stories, some sad and desperate, some perfectly ordinary, but they had all wound up under his roof somehow, and he would do everything he could for all of them. They weren’t noble figures or great players, they would never be mentioned in a book or tv show, but they were real people who lived, and they deserved the right to life as much as anyone else did. So yes, he learned their stories, and tried to do right by them, because the world was a dark cruel place and no-one else would.

“My Lord” Maester Thyman had replaced the man who had been sitting on Petyr’s left, and the youthful looking Stormlander looked at him, he had a small scroll in his hand “this message arrived for you just before dinner. I thought given the contents, that you at least deserved to have a meal before you read it.”

Thyman had been Petyr’s maester for six years, and while he wasn’t a native to the Vale, and indeed had only barely earned his chain, he had risen in Petyr’s estimates and confidence in that time like a star. He also handled all the raven traffic both in and out of Baelmanor, and while Petyr didn’t love the fact that he would read those same messages, he had learned to accept it as part of using the raven network, anything that came by courier was a different matter after all.

He held out a hand for the message, and as he read it, he felt his face turning more and more to stone.

“ _Lord Petyr Baelish, The Iron Islands have declared themselves in rebellion upon Our throne. You are summoned to make best possible haste with your all possible ships to King’s Landing. You will report to Our presence upon your arrival._

_His Grace,_

_King Stannis._ ”

Petyr didn’t bother reading all the additional titles, he didn’t give a shit about them and knew that Stannis only cared about them when absolutely necessary. His mind was too busy racing. He had of course known that the Ironborn would do this at _some_ point, or at least _should_ do this, but he had been hoping that he’d be able to stay out of the whole affair and let it take its course. It appeared that Stannis was less concerned about sharing the glory than his older brother had been if he was tapping the Vale. He also wouldn’t have sent for Petyr without informing John Arryn, which meant that even if Petyr was mad enough to refuse a summons from the King, his own Lord Paramount would likely be around to kick his arse.

“Thank you Thyman. Get a rider out to the docks, inform Captain Gwilym that I will need the Titan’s Sprint ready to depart at first tide in the morning, and that he is to take on full combat provisions. Then get a similar message to the Company office, and make sure it is to relay to all ships to make for King’s Landing, with full combat provisions.”

The room had gone quiet as Petyr had made no attempt to be subtle as he talked to the Maester, and he found himself the centre of attention. He stood up, holding his right hand out to Pol who took it without any further prompting, a solid comfort to him considering what he was about to say.

“Everyone. The Iron Islands have risen in rebellion against King Stannis and I have been called upon to present myself to him at the earliest possible time. It appears that I may be gone for some time come morning, I expect you all to carry on as you should in my absence. Let us also ask the Gods, Old and New, to bless all those who may find themselves engaged in combat soon.”

There was a murmuring from the people in the hall as they made their own prayers at his lead, considering the mix of faiths within his household it was only natural he offered his prayers to both sets of Gods, and a small Godswood was being cultivated on the property, the existence of which had miraculously not harmed his standing with the Church. He however took his leave then, Pol’s hand still in his own, as he prepared to explain to his daughter what exactly was about to happen, and how she hopefully wouldn't be about to lose another parent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of third batch of updates.
> 
> Tomorrow I'll do the fourth which will bring this story up to date with everything else that has been written.
> 
> Again, thank you to everyone who has given this kudos and comments so far.


	31. Chapter 29

**Chapter 29**

**Petyr XXI**

Even with a state of urgency, a good ship and a strong wind, travelling to King’s Landing was still going to take more than one day of travel. Granted, it wouldn’t take more than four, but it meant that for a few days Petyr had nothing to do but loiter around his ship and try not to get in the way. A ship could only have one master, and even though he paid the wages of every man onboard, that master wasn’t him. At least, not as far as making sure they reached their destination was concerned. Captain Gwilym Delver was a lean man with a heavily weather worn face, one whose normal expression would give even King Stannis a run for his money in the “most serious looking man in Westeros” category. He brooked no fools, took no shit and was far sharper and intelligent than he looked. In all, he was perfect as a captain for one of Petyr’s ships, and he hoped that Gwilym would also be a successful impromptu Flag-Captain for Petyr and would get him, his crews and his ships home in at least something resembling one piece.

Given Petyr also wanted to avoid walking on Gwilym’s toes or otherwise irritating him more than dragging him and his ship’s company, as well as a few extras, off to war already was, he had resigned himself to an out of the way spot on the ships stern where he could watch over, and not interfere, with the handling of the ship. His position of seniority to the ship’s crew, mainly that he was second only to the God’s themselves, meant that he was also being left widely alone, which was fine. Of course that would have to change, no matter what orders he was about to get in King’s Landing, he was going to need to draft in an aide so that he wouldn’t have to go and bother the Captain personally every-time he needed something done. His isolation and remoteness though meant that he was in a good position to observe the world around him, and to think, something he hadn’t realised his daily life had been preventing due to the comfort of routine.

He didn’t bother wasting his thoughts on Lannisport and Casterly Rock, if anything he was somewhat glad that the Ironborn had still targetted there first. He wasn’t happy, for all the hardening and soul searching he had done since nearly dying to Arthur Dayne, he still couldn’t take joy in the thoughts of ordinary, normal people dying. Nor could he take joy in the prospect of once again going off to war, even if said war might help make the centralization and unity of Westeros move along just that bit quicker. But he could take some comfort in that this was going to hurt Tywin Lannister, and hurt him _badly_. He didn’t have any personal animosity towards Tywin, they hadn’t interacted enough for that, but considering the lengths that Tywin was willing to go to to achieve his goals, such as ordering the murder of a mother and her infant children, it was safe to say that Petyr was not exactly his fan.

The fact that Tywin had been working away as the Hand of the King since the end of the Rebellion, which he realised he was going to need to start referring to as Robert’s Rebellion what with a new Rebellion happening, meant that Tywin had gained a lot of power. Stannis was a decent administrator and smart enough to listen to his Hand’s advice while also not simply doing everything his Hand suggested, the problem was that Tywin was very good at giving the advice he wanted in a way that made it look like the best course of action. The Red Keep wasn’t a solidly Lannister institution, Stannis wouldn’t allow that, but it wasn’t a mystery to figure out which of the Seven Kingdoms held the most sway in the court of King Stannis, and even with the restraints he inherited from Robert, the King was still a very powerful man. With the birth of Tywin’s Grandson Steffon, thankfully a dark haired, but sickly, boy of two, Tywin’s power only grew. Only really four things prevented him from being the real “power behind the throne.”

The first, and most obvious one, was Stannis himself. Stannis didn’t like being used, and so Tywin’s claws were kept clipped back a certain degree. That wasn’t to say that Stannis was a perfect King able to deflect all of Tywin’s advances, but his own innate stubbornness and drive meant that Tywin had to act more cautiously than he probably would have if, for example, Robert or Renly were on the throne. The second block on Tywin’s monopolization of power was Jon Arryn, Petyr’s own liege lord held the purse strings, and he fought tooth and nail to make sure that everyone knew he did. As Master of Coin, it was Jon who ultimately got to tell Tywin to fuck off if he came up with any particular scheme. It also helped that while Jon lacked the personal bond that Robert had had with Stannis, his own character meshed well enough with Stannis’s that there wasn’t any major friction between them. Which was good, because if Stannis started coming down on Jon Arryn’s various schemes and ideas, Petyr would be in an awkward position.

The third and fourth things that kept Tywin in check were less “keep him in check” and more “keep him distracted”, and honestly Petyr didn’t know if he should laugh or despair at them himself. Jaime and Cersei Lannister, even if they weren’t shacking up, were both more than capable of forcing their father to have to deal with them to the detriment of his other various efforts. Cersei was the more immediate problem, being that she was also present in the Red Keep, and as Stannis’s Queen and mother of his child held a firm amount of sway over her husband. She had her own agendas and drive, and those didn’t necessarily mesh with Tywin’s own goals, which had led to friction and now a very strong cooling of relations between the two. At least, that was if half the gossip and rumour that Petyr counted on as his “intel” in the Royal Court was to be believed. Truth be told, he had only met Cersei twice, once when he had literally collided with her and come dangerously close to losing a hand, the second time after he had last come to King’s Landing to report to Jon Arryn on how well he was doing in Gulltown. In all honesty, the only thing he knew for certain was that she bought his soap, lavender and rose, and that she hadn’t birthed any incest babies.

The fact that Jaime was on the other side of the continent probably had something to do with that, but his distance didn’t make him any less of a pain for Tywin to deal with. Jaime Lannister, to the shock of virtually no-one, was not exactly a sterling administrator. He was a capable warrior, he could organize a campaign, hell he was even doing what anyone else would have regarded as a perfectly “acceptable” job of running the lands of House Lannister while Tywin was away. The problem was that Tywin Lannister, the closest thing Westeros had to a helicopter parent, was not satisfied with simply “acceptable”. The fact that Jaime wasn’t exactly as good at the job as Tywin himself had been meant that, again according to the various gossips and rumour-mills, not to mention the small number of spies that Petyr owned, that Tywin was trying to micro-manage from King’s Landing. Petyr didn’t need any second hand sources to know that drove Jaime up the wall, he had that in the man’s own hand as he had kept an infrequent, but pleasant, correspondence going with him for about four years now. Only Jaime’s Uncle Kevan’s presence had kept Tywin from going to Casterly Rock himself, and now with quite possibly half the Westerlands on fire, Tywin was definitely headed that way anyway.

Then of course, there was the other non-political reason why Petyr was glad to see Tywin get hurt over this. Mainly, rebuilding all this damage was going to cost a _lot_ of money. Money that “everyone” knew that Tywin Lannister was good for, except Petyr was pretty sure he _wasn’t_ good for it. Either the mines under Casterly Rock were infinite in their gold supply, which Petyr refused to accept as reality, even in the light of his exposure to so many other things that simply should not be possible. Which would mean Tywin would have to make the repayments slowly, lest he basically make gold worthless by letting the inflation demon out of the bag. Or the mines were not bottomless, and the finances of House Lannister were about to take a serious battering. Either way, the wealthiest family in all of Westeros was going to have to dial back on their expenses for a few years, which meant that they probably wouldn’t be able to loan out any money, which meant that people who would need money but could not now take it from House Lannister, would need an alternative source. Oh they could go to the Iron Bank, but that was _so_ far away, and frankly the Iron Bank is very unreasonable when it came to defaulters. Gulltown though? Why that was already in Westeros, and the jumped up upstart Braavosi whoreson, bastard having, merchant being, various other descriptive expletives, Petyr Baelish was _known_ for being basically a pushover when it came to defaulters.

And Petyr _would_ welcome them, and give out loans, and be all nice and smiley and oh so generous in his terms. All the noble and ancient houses that would borrow from him would all think him a total simpleton, right up to the moment they missed _one_ payment. Then, well, then he would _own_ them.

***

His arrival in King’s Landing was without any fanfare, which was to be expected of course, but it was not without some careful plotting and negotiations by the pilot who came aboard the _Titan’s Sprint_ to bring her into the crowded docks. That the docks of King’s Landing were crowded was nothing new, that they were as full as they were while also so quiet was a sign that not everything was right in the realm of King Stannis. There were of course still ships unloading and loading on cargo, it would take the city directly under siege for commerce to totally stop, but a lot of ships flew royal standards from their masts and sat at quayside, armed men occasionally appearing among the rigging and rails. A ramp was quickly run out as the crew set about the task of securing the ship to the quay, and Petyr wasted no time as he strode across onto firm ground, and promptly took a few steps trying to get used to a flooring that wasn’t constantly moving.

“It’s a good thing I find to not get to used to one footing or another My Lord, that way you will only be disappointed.”

Petyr looked up with a smile at the familiar voice as he found Ser Davos Seaworth standing nearby amongst a clutch of guards in Baratheon colours. The older man's voice face matched the warmth that had been in his voice as he stepped close towards Petyr with an arm outstretched.

“Davos, I am glad at least to have a friendly face waiting for me.” Petyr said as he took the offered arm in a firm clasp.

“Well His Grace wants you before him with a minimal amount of delay, so I was sent down as soon as one of your ships was spotted in the Bay. I was also tasked with making sure your vessel wasn’t going to be held up waiting for a spot and all the usual that comes with tying up.”

“Well that’s good. I do have her loaded up with weapons, men and provisions, so I’m hoping a full customs search won’t be warranted?”

His thoughts turned to a fair few items within the hold of his ship that he could very much do without the Goldcloaks and any other potentially interested parties knowing about, and as he spoke he tried his best to keep that feeling off his face. Davos was a friend, yes, but he was Stannis’s loyal man first and foremost.

“No you will be skipped it, provided of course your crew isn’t going to start offloading many crates and barrels?”

Davos turned the statement into a question, and as he did Petyr could see a slight twinkle in the old smugglers eye.

“Nothing large, I swear. Though I do have some soaps for Her Grace as well as a few casks of spirits for the Red Keep.”

“Well you’ll need to get them up later, for now we need to make haste. Unless of course you need to see to billeting your men?”

“I have a Factor for that Davos, and if he can’t tell me what den of inequity’s that my crew has slinked off to, then I’ll threaten to go through his books. By the time he’s finished contemplating that horror he’ll either know exactly where they are, or be joining the Night’s Watch.”

Davos let out a bark of laughter at that, but he also turned towards the armed guards who had quickly fallen into a lose circle surrounding the pair as they started towards the Red Keep. They would be going on foot, something Petyr secretly suspected Davos had arranged so that Petyr would lose his sea-legs all the quicker, and while that would normally not be the quickest way through King’s Landing, the beauty of an armed escort on Royal duty meant that their walk was uninterrupted and uneventful.

They passed more men in Baratheon colours as they entered into the Red Keep, the Goldcloaks were kept strictly to patrolling the city and the Browncloaks, that being the Royal Army who were equipped with rough-spun aforementioned brown cloaks, were kept outside King’s Landing for the most part. Stannis Baratheon had, rather sensibly in Petyr’s opinion, decided to guard his family and self with men he knew could be depended upon. They may not all be veterans of the siege of Storm’s End anymore, but the various Sergeants and other more senior members of the Royal Guard definitely were. They didn’t bat an eye at Petyr and his escort though as he entered, and the escort peeled off from Davos and himself almost as soon as they crossed into the main courtyard. Petyr didn’t actually see another armed man inside the Castle until Davos turned a corner and came to a stop in front of two armed men who were standing guard at a doorway.

“Lord Petyr Baelish to see his Grace.” Davos said, and one of the guards nodded and reached to open the door, which Davos promptly stepped through and Petyr followed.

The room beyond the door was simply furnished, being almost completely built around a long wooden table with eight chairs. Of the chairs, the one at the head of the table was the most impressive, built to dominate the table, the one at the foot was also impressive, but not to the same scale, and the other six that flanked the table were again fine, but simple, looking pieces of furniture. One of those chairs was occupied, but apart from a brief glance at Jon Arryn, Petyr drew his attention to the back of the man staring out the large window in the room.

“Lord Baelish, Your Grace.” Davos said, and with that he sketched a bow to the back of Stannis Baratheon and withdrew from the room, or at least from Petyr’s limited eyesight as he, in turn, bowed towards the back of the King of Westeros.

“Your Grace, you have summoned me” he said “and so I have come. In what way can I serve you in these trying times?”

Petyr kept his language simple, and to the point. With Stannis, being simple and to the point was _always_ the best option. He also mad sure to paint himself in a subservient role, as not being “proper” would also be the easiest way to piss off Stannis, and he wouldn’t want that. He wanted a happy Stannis.

“How many ships were you able to bring with you?”

No greetings, no pleasantries, no anything, straight and direct, Gods but Petyr _liked_ dealing with Stannis.

“Three with me now, all of them of my _Runner_ type. I have a further four cogs coming in behind, but they will be at least four days out with good weather. To make the best possible time I ordered my faster ships ahead, a convoy can, after all, only move as fast as its slowest ship.”

“Seven ships in total?”

“For now. Given another week I should have a further two Runner’s here, the _Stormcrow_ and _Flying Reachman_ should be making landfall back in Gulltown in the next two days. Given one day to rest crews and take on war provisions, they can be down here swiftly. I’m afraid I’m not as punctual when it comes to my older craft.”

“No galley’s?”

“No Your Grace. If, as I suspect, my ships and I are to go to engage the Ironborn, I’d rather do it sometime this decade, and Galley’s at that distance would only slow down any fleet significantly, not to count possible loss of numbers if they have to travel the Shipbreaker Bay and the Sea of Dorne.”

“Good.” Stannis said as he turned to face Petyr, there was, as usual, no mirth to his face, and the dark beard that he sported, combined with his shaved head, would have made any mirth seem far too out of place on so serious a face.

“I have my reasons for sending for you Lord Petyr. Due to circumstances beyond even my control, I am in need of someone with your proven abilities. I shall leave the exact details of your duty to Lord Jon to explain.”

With that Stannis strode past Petyr, and exited the room promptly, leaving him alone with Jon Arryn who lowered himself back into his seat.

“Take no offence at his brevity Petyr, his Grace is quite busy trying to organise his response to the actions of the Ironborn, and Tywin Lannister tearing off towards the Westerlands with total abandon of his duties here has made things somewhat difficult. Now take a seat will you?”

Jon Arryn waved a hand at the chairs opposite him and Petyr sat himself in the nearest one to him, which in turn drew a snort of laughter from Jon Arryn. Petyr gave him a quizzical look and Arryn spoke as he smiled.

“Nothing too amusing, just that Lord Estermont would probably raise a fuss at you taking his chair.”

Petyr settled into the chair that was used by the Master of Whispers then and relaxed his expression as he looked at his Liege Lord.

“To put it simply Petyr” Jon started, his tone still sounding the same as it had when Petyr had been presented to him after being kicked out of the Riverlands oh so many years ago “His Grace has a problem. Renly Baratheon, Master of Ships is also Renly Baratheon, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. He is also, after Prince Steffon, the next man in line to the Iron Throne and is not yet a full grown man, although his majority is only some three months away.”

Jon listed his points on the fingers of his left hand as he spoke, and Petyr allowed a spare thought as to just how much Jon Arryn would have loved Powerpoint in another time and place. He just about kept the smile off his face.

“Normally, Renly has been happy to act as Master of Ships in name, with the reality of the situation being handled by Ser Davos. Now, I myself have no objections to using the most capable man for a job, regardless of his humble origins.”

Petyr didn’t react to the thinly veiled reference.

“But there are some who feel that, given the current situation, they would rather serve under a more noble inexperienced boy than a seasoned former smuggler. His Grace however, disagrees. He would rather that they all, and I quote, “shut their damned fool mouths and get on with the situation at hand” but alas not even His Grace is immune to the realities of politics. He also does not want to place his only remaining brother in harms way, so he has ordered Renly to defend the Stormlands from any possible Ironborn incursion. So, lacking anyone other than Ser Davos to command the Royal Fleet, things were seeming to be at an impasse.”

“I’m guessing, My Lord, that this is where I enter into the situation?”

“Exactly Petyr. I suggested to His Grace to summon you here at once. We either remember how you handled the challenge of the logistics of our Armies during Robert’s Rebellion, and some of us have even read your account of the campaign.”

Petyr tried not to blush at that mention of his book. It had been an expensive prospect to get made up from his notes, but the scribes had done a fantastic job and he had sent a few different copies around as a courtesy. It had only been afterwards he’d realised that it had smacked a little bit of “I’m so great, I wrote a book and sent it to you to show you how great I am”, but in his defence, he had been dealing with a city wide fire at the time.

“So between that and your...actions with regards to the commerce of Gulltown, mainly your interest in naval shipping, I felt, and suggested to His Grace, that you would be more than capable of handling a trivial task such as commanding and organising the Royal Fleet. As a man of Noble birth, you will assuage the concerns of the other Houses that have objected to Ser Davos, but you have also shown enough of a rational head to be willing to listen to experts on matters you don’t understand. You will be acting under, but with, the full authority of the Master of Ships, meaning that only Renly, and His Grace could give you an order that you would be tasked to follow.”

“I see My Lord, and what particular order has His Grace given to me?”

“Simple. You are to take the Royal Fleet from King’s Landing to Oldtown, wherein you will meet up with the Redwyne Fleet and proceed towards Lannisport, engaging any Ironborn forces you encounter on the way. You will also have to pick up the Dornish forces at Plankeytown, a small force of course, but one that should be under command of Prince Oberyn.”

Petyr just about managed to keep the panic off his face at the mention of Oberyn. He had not seen the other man in nearly eight years, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still kicking himself for leading him on. He’d almost prefer to just face the Ironborn fleet.

“Does His Grace have a particular time he’d like me to depart?” He asked instead of dwelling on thoughts of a Red Viper.

“Within the month. His Grace is a rational enough man and knows that there are additional challenges to commanding a fleet a sea than there are an army at land. But he will be expecting you to be at Lannisport in time to either engage the Ironborn navy, or ferry the Army to the Iron Isles within a reasonable time.”

“I see. Is there anything else?”

“Nothing else from His Grace Petyr, but I will say this. I appreciate the work you have done in Gulltown, and I accept that you are a very capable young man. Do not let me down in this situation, I have invested a lot in you pulling this off. Do not disappoint me.”

***

Upon leaving his meeting with Jon Arryn, Petyr had found Davos waiting outside and had set about at once to work on fulfilling the task he had been set. The good news was that the Crown was carrying the costs, which meant Petyr was able to set about requisitioning ships and purchasing supplies without upsetting too many people and ruining too many livelihoods. The bad news was, outside of Petyr’s five Essosi Runner’s, the fleet was going to be mainly cogs, with a few hulks and more seaworthy galley’s thrown in. Petyr would have gladly taken no galley’s, after all the Redwyne Fleet could make up for their shortfall in what was the main naval fighting vessel. But there was politics involved as this or that nobleman of House No-one-gives-a-shit had a son who was captain of the Galley SS _Fucking Useless_ and was demanding their child get their opportunity at delicious salt-water glory. The hulks and cogs were better, but not by a huge margin. Due to the fact that this was a world without naval gunfire, sheer manpower was the name of the game when it came to naval warfare, and while hulks and cogs _could_ carry decent numbers of men and supplies, they really were not built for it, so they promised to be rather inefficient in a naval fight.

Luckily, Petyr had Davos on his side. Davos Seaworth was not a pirate, and as a smuggler he had done everything in his power to _avoid_ naval combat, but that meant that the older man was a friggin genius when it came to the handling and positioning of ships. This meant that Petyr’s strategy for what he was doing was basically going to be the old “Quantity over Quality” ethos as he could use the other ships to overwhelm the Ironborn longships. The Ironborn might fight in full armour due to a lack of a fear of drowning, but their vessels were on average _smaller_ than the ships Petyr would be bringing to the fight. It would be bloody, and it would be expensive, but the older ships Petyr had would be able to beat down the Ironborn by sheer bloody math.

Then of course there was Petyr’s own five ships, and as he sat atop a barrel of vinegar on quayside looking at the _Titan’s Sprint_ he felt a shiver down his spine. He may not have any naval cannon onboard his vessels, but that wasn’t to say he didn’t have a few “fun” innovations ready and waiting to make life hell for the dumb fool that attacked his ships. There were a few pirate corpses that had already learned that lesson in Essos, although there had been no survivors to share that hard won knowledge. Petyr almost wished he had Qo here with him to observe these fully functional Essosi Runner’s in action, but he had left the most dangerous man he trusted, along with a not insignificant number of his own guardsmen back in Gulltown to protect Pol and keep the Arryn’s and Graftons in check. He heard a bird cawing then and turned his attention towards the rigging of his ship where a raven sat, staring at him.

“Oh you can just fuck off.”

He muttered as he looked at the bird. Ravens in Westeros were more than just exceptionally clever corvids, and Petyr was in no mood to deal with _him_ right this moment.

“Oh I’m sorry My Lord, I didn’t mean to offend.”

Petyr jumped at the voice that spoke and turned to look at the source of it. The source managed to not flinch at Petyr doing that, and _almost_ managed to keep a smirk off his youthful peach-fuzz covered face. Credit where it was due, but Petyr’s estimation of Allard “surprisingly sneaky for a teenager” Seaworth grew.

“Allard” he said, hardening his voice “what have I told you about sneaking up on me?”

“Only do it when it is important?”

“Really? I thought I said not to, under any circumstances?”

“You did, at first, then you adjusted that opinion when you and Father were in your cups two nights ago. If it’s any consolation, Father says he is _never_ drinking your fire-water again.”

Petyr chuckled. Davos Seaworth could not hold his gin, and after sticking Petyr with this particular little shit on the basis of “well Petyr you were looking for a halfway capable seaman to assist you”. Allard was the second born of Davos’s sons, and unlike Dale he wasn’t quite old enough to be second in command of Davos’s own ship, nor was he young enough like Matthos to simply serve aboard the _Black Betha_. He was however perfectly aged and experienced to serve as something brand new to Westeros, that being a Flag Lieutenant. Granted, Petyr hadn’t exactly called the role that, he would _later_ of course, but for now Lord Ser Petyr Baelish had taken on Allard Seawroth as a “sea-squire” with the promise of actually knighting the little bollocks at the end of all this, if Petyr didn’t throw him into the sea for sneaking up on him first.

Granted, knighting him would mean that Allard would, sort of, be Petyr’s responsibilty seeing as how he was not entitled to inherit the Seaworth knighthood. But if there was one thing Petyr could afford, it was a knight.

“Well outside of enlightening me on your father’s new drinking limitations, what did you want me about?”

“Captain Delver’s respects, but he wanted me to inform you that the _Stormcrow_ has arrived. He says that Captain Blower apologises for his tardiness, there was a squall that drove him into Dragonstone for a bit longer than he had planned. Captain Delver assures me that Captain Blower only _slightly believes_ that Captain Xo of the _Flying Reachman_ put a curse on him so that he could get here first.”

Petyr facepalmed at that and shook his head.

“Allard, if you learn nothing else from this, learn this much. Some men in this world will let petty rivalries dictate _anything_.”

“Yes My Lord. Do you need me for anything else?”

“Go check in with Master Hawker in the office, tell him I want to know what is taking so long with the supplies I’ve ordered for the ships. Then pop over, introduce yourself to Blower, and tell him his men get only two days shore leave. We will departing first tide three days from now, barring any Summer Islander summoned storms that is.”


	32. Chapter 30

**Chapter 30**

**Various III**

Jaime would have been the first to admit that his custodianship, or rather his custodianship with oversight from his uncle acting as his father’s mouthpiece, had not been without incident. The poor grain harvest two years prior, the mess of dealing with the lesser Clegane brother, and the numerous boundary disputes though were hardly his fault. In his opinion, he had handled those issues well and in general prevented the Westerlands from catching fire, of course that wasn’t enough for his father, who would not be happy if Jaime had managed to somehow find Brightroar, bring his mother back from the dead and become the living avatar of the Seven on earth. But he had had his outlets for his frustrations, either by cavorting with Tyrion and occasionally his Uncle Gerion, the only two other men who seemed to understand what it meant to be pinned in one place by his father. He had written to his sister, even if the correspondence had not been able to contain the true passions he felt, nor her letters to him. Gods he wished he and Cersei could just take ship to a far land where they would be unknown and simply live for each other as they wished, but such a dream could not be, not any more. He could console herself to the fact that her marriage at least was not making her miserable, even if it was not bringing her any true joy. He had also written to Petyr Baelish, their correspondence had come in the wake of the younger Clegane going in search of the man who killed his brother, and the lack of news over how that meeting would have gone with Howland Reed had Jaime convinced he would need to see if the young pup had gotten himself killed.

But for all of his frustrations at his father’s reach and influence, he would have traded his current situation to return to those issues in a heartbeat, as right now “not losing Casterly Rock” was about the best thing he could say for himself. He didn’t turn to regard the men along the battlements near him, better they regard him as a near statue watching for his foes weakness than a man unsure if he was still in command, but if they could see inside his head they would know that his thoughts were with the huddled masses now deep in the galleys and caverns under Casterly Rock itself. When the attack had come, they had flooded into the Rock for safety, the rich and poor, women with children at their heels or in their arms, elders moving with a grace they hadn’t displayed since their youth. Among them had been men in scarlet cloaks, some few wounded and luckily able to move themselves to the Rock, others men who had simply seen the battle coming, and had given into a craven instinct that can only exist when death loomed before them. He didn’t judge the latter group, no one who hadn’t seen _it_ could ever understand. Besides, he was busy judging himself at the moment as the sound of the gates closing came unbidden again and again in his own mind.

He had ordered them open for as long as he could, but still, they had been shut when the first Ironborn appeared just outside bow shot. Letting them over run the gates simply because he was not able to make a harsh decision would not have done, but that didn’t mean he was immune to the pain he felt every time he thought of the crying, the pleading, the prayers and swears that had been near deafening when the gates had shut. His only solace was in that his archers had at least managed to keep the Ironborn back long enough that the throngs who were denied sanctuary should at least have had time to run. But even that pain was better to focus on, as his own fears and doubts continued to pile ever higher in his heart.

Jaime was dragged out of his thoughts at the sound of footsteps next to him, and he turned his head from his vigil over the smoke rising from Lannisport to face his uncle. His uncle Gerion was normally called the “Laughing Lion” a man who in temperament almost seemed impossible to be related to Jaime’s own father. But at this moment, the resemblance between his uncle and father was almost striking. Gone were the smiles lurking in his eyes, the smiles that had made him long a favourite of his sister, himself and his brother, instead they were as hard as the very rock they stood upon. In his hands were no gifts, or mummers tricks, instead he carried a large axe and round shield, and while his uncle was not a very martial man, that would be his uncle Tygett who held that distinction among his uncles, he did know how to use both to a startling degree of competency. Jaime looked into his uncle’s face and didn’t even say a word, the question he wanted to ask almost seemingly answered in his uncle’s stance and face, and his uncle seemed to know it, as he did not bother with any pretence.

“No Jaime, I’m sorry.”

He felt his hands ball into tight fists and fought hard to bite down the frustration and worry he felt. Tyrion had not been in his bedchambers when everything had gone to the Hells. That, on any other day, would not have been too much of a surprise. His brother’s love of carousing and desire to match wits and words with anyone meant that he spent more days than not outside the Rock, a situation that Jaime normally drew joy from as he viewed it as at least one good thing to come from his father being half a world away. But on this, of all days, he wished he had taken his father’s advice and kept Tyrion locked away in an oubliette under the Rock for his own safety. He had hoped that perhaps he had been among the crowds that had fought their way in, or even had been off exploring some long lost cavern under the Rock, and he had trusted the one man in all of Westeros that understood his brother’s mind as well as he did to try and find him, and if Gerion said he was not within the Rock, that meant he was not here. So he turned from his uncle back to his watch and offered his own prayer, something he had not done since an equally distressing and horrifying night in King’s Landing so many years ago, that his brother’s diminutive size might save him this once. When he was sure he had regained control over himself he turned towards Gerion who had not moved nor looked away, and opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say anything a cry of “MOVEMENT!” went up from the main gate, and so he closed his mouth and took off along the battlements.

It didn’t take him long to reach his destination, and as he arrived he found Tygett already barking orders to hold arrows.

“Uncle” he said as the older man looked at him “what is the situation?”

“There” his uncle said, jabbing a finger towards a row of smoke and fire damaged buildings near the wall, “one of the lads says he saw movement, and I’m not sure what to make of it.”

Jaime looked where Tygett pointed and saw what looked like a shambling figure making its way slowly towards the Rock, and as it drew closer though, it became more and more evident to him that it wasn’t a _single_ figure, but many. They came on, ever closer, and as they did he could see that it was, of all things, a procession of men being lead by a man who was trying to hobble and limp his way forward on crutches.

“Open the wicket gate, get a group of five men and get out to those men and bring them in here” he said as he turned to the nearest guardsman who simply bobbed his head and took off, as he did Jaime turned his attention back and raised his voice so that it would carry “all archers, nock but do not draw. If this is a trap, any man not ready to act will face the Stranger with my sword up his arse.”

The orders given, given with a mild snort of satisfaction from his uncle Tygett no less, Jaime could do nothing but wait as he split his attention between the distant buildings and the small party of men who went out to assist the procession. After what felt like an eternity, he saw the procession pass underneath him and he turned to Tygett.

“Uncle, the watch is yours, should those bastards try anything, dissuade them.”

Tygett nodded as Jaime moved at a spirited, but not panicking, speed down from the battlements towards where he could now see the procession were gathered in the main courtyard, and as he came closer he felt an overwhelming urge to halt and turn from them. They were ten men in total, each bound to the man in front by chains and ropes, and the man at the head of the procession appeared to have his makeshift, uneven crutches, bound tightly by bonds to his arms. The men themselves were all naked, barring two men that had scarlet cloaks attached, no, as he drew closer he saw they were _nailed_ onto their bodies. Blood caked the chests of the men, and as they fell to the ground in relief, he saw them open their mouths and emit no sound, and their heads moved aimlessly as if they were trying desperately to see.

“Fetch the Maester, NOW!” He barked the order at the nearest man he saw that wasn’t actively helping the strange procession, then he took a moment to regard them before he again spoke.

“What happened to these men?” He asked aloud, not seeking any answer, but he did receive one from the man who had led the procession.

“The Ironborn my Lord” he said, his voice sounding strained and muffled, and Jaime turned his attention to him, and at once flinched. The mans face was covered in blood, as was his chest, and he was being held up by two guardsmen who gently lowered him to the ground on twisted and broken legs.

“What? How do you mean man?”

“They captured us” the man said, focusing his gaze on Jaime with what he realised was only one eye “and of the many taken, we ten were deemed lucky, with me being deemed the “Chosen”. They beat us, at first, and they broke my legs before attaching these crutches to me. They took my teeth, my right eye, and bound the others to me. They took their eyes, their tongues, and did other tortures unto them before they took their knives to our backs.”

“Your backs?” Jaime said, and as he said it he turned to look at the nearest of the poor souls by him and saw on his back someone had carved words crudely.

“ _We do not sow.”_

He felt his mouth go dry, and if he had taken any food so far this day it likely would have left him. The one thing it did was remove any ambiguity as to who was behind this, as the words of House Greyjoy made it clear as day. Instead he inhaled a deep breath and brought his attention back to the leader of the procession.

“I swear this to you, the one who did this to you will pay.”

He then turned his attention away from the men and took in as many of the assembled men who were watching the ongoing situation.

“HEAR ME MEN OF HOUSE LANNISTER!” He shouted, determined his voice should carry as much as it could “ANY MAN WHO BRINGS ME THE HEAD OF AN IRONBORN NOBLE SHALL RECEIVE THAT WEIGHT IN SILVER. ANY WHO BRINGS ME A GREYJOY’S HEAD, THAT WEIGHT IN _GOLD_.”

The announcement wasn’t met with a sudden cheer or resounding huzzah like from a mummer’s tale, no, the response to that declaration was a slowly growing guttural roar of agreement as the men reacted to the two most base instincts of man that Jaime knew, greed and a desire for vengeance.

“Never” came the voice of Gerion softly beside him, his uncle had not left his side the whole time “would I have thought I would say this, but I am glad that I see Tywin in you for a moment boy.”

“Uncle, that was nothing. If they have done this to Tyrion, you will truly see my father’s influence in me. I swear that.”

***

It was after the breaking of dawn the day after the procession of tortured men had arrived at the Rock, a whole three days since the Ironborn had attacked, when Jaime was awoken with the news that the Ironborn ships had departed Lannisport. The implication of such a move was obvious, that being that the Ironborn had departed from their raid, but he knew better than to headlong rush into an action due to what _appeared_ to be the case. Instead he took his time to assemble a group of men together, along with a second smaller group under the command of his uncle Tygett, and while their total number was substantial, nearing three hundred men, he was leaving the vast majority of men behind in the Rock in case this was some sort of trap.

“I’m leaving you the Rock uncle” he said to Gerion as Jaime prepared himself on the back of his horse, the advantage of a horse in even an urban fight were still strong after all “in the event that I do not return, hold it and the people within until my father arrives. Keep those close to us safe uncle.”

One of the things that happened in the Rock that his father would never have approved of was that Gerion did not live alone. The common woman he had taken as a wife in all but fact, Briony, lived with him, ostensibly as his chief servant, and with them came Jaime’s bastard cousin Joy. Both mother and babe were safe within the Rock, and Jaime hoped they would remain that way, and knew Gerion would do everything in his power to keep that. Jaime felt some guilt at making an oblique reference to them, as he treated his “not-Aunt” and bastard cousin with more love than he did certain true born relatives, mostly due to Tyrion’s own kindness towards them, but he needed his uncle properly motivated.

“Aye Jaime, I will do that. In turn though, if you should find either or both of our brothers, bring them home.”

Jaime turned his face away at that, lest he allow the pain he felt to give itself away. Tyrion was not the only member of the Lannister household that had been in Lannisport, and in all his worry and stress over his younger brother, Jaime had not shown any care or concern about the fact that Kevan was also not among the crowds of Casterly Rock. He had leaned heavily on his two uncles, and had not once shown any concern about their own brother. He put his spurs to his mount and rode forward then, the larger group of men moving into step behind him as the gates were opened to permit him to exit. Tygett followed him outside and then split off with his group, he had been assigned to move towards, and if necessary clear out, Lannisport directly towards Lan’s square at the centre of the town. His group was to head towards the docks and do the same thing, at the first sign of substantial trouble though, both groups were to make for the Rock, he had no problems throwing his own life away here, but he wanted as many men as possible to hold the Rock if it came to it.

His group moved through streets that were strewn with debris, and a part of Jaime’s brain couldn’t help but see the similarities to Lannisport and how King’s Landing had looked after his Father’s army had been through with it. Buildings were burnt, or at least damaged from smoke, doors smashed open, furniture clearly searched and discarded. Bodies lay in the streets, men, women and children, some in groups, some distant, some with their bodies mutilated, others fallen almost untouched. The only life his men saw as they carried out their orders were crows or other carrion birds picking at corpses, or dogs gnawing at the bodies that were chased off with carefully aimed boots, arrows or stones. The silence was the truly unnerving part, these were streets that Jaime had been down countless times in his life, and never, not even in the dead of night, were they as silent as they were now. He could not let his guard drop though, so instead he kept his sword drawn across his saddle and watched for any movement that could be anything more than what they saw. When finally they reached the waterfront of Lannisport though, he noticed something different. The destruction here was more methodical, more focused. There were no bodies clogging the streets, no debris holding up the docks, and there were no buildings that were only slightly damaged. Wrecks and debris from the fleet that had been slaughtered at anchor stood out, like a giants gnarled fingers but was more interesting was how many ships that should have been destroyed wrecks were not present, likely captured and taken by the Ironborn. Warehouses were completely gutted and razed, and he could almost see the Ironborn men that would have looted those buildings as each group he sent to the buildings reported back that they were surprisingly empty among the damaged remains. He could see it from the waterfront more than anything else, this had not been some simple raid for treasure and slaves, this had been a deliberate, calculated attack, the opening moves of an actual _war._

“My Lord” Jaime’s attention was snapped from his ruminations towards a red faced guradsman who was clearly short on breath “My Lord, Ser Tygett’s compliments sir, but he requests you at Lan’s Square sir, we have found something.”

“Dammit man, what did you find?”

“I don’t know sir, I wasn’t able to get a good look at it before he sent me to find you.”

Jaime swore, not at the man but in general and got his horse to move again, he didn’t bother giving any orders, and at the sound of men falling in and moving behind him it was clear he didn’t need to. The men he lead were professional soldiers, not peasant levies, they knew how to act in these situations, and within a short span of minutes he found himself emerging onto Lan’s Square, and almost at once he was taken aback.

Around the square, men with crimson cloaks nailed to them had in turn been nailed in death to wood, each one crucified and placed in such a way as to flank the square. He fought hard to keep himself calm, and at the sound of wretching behind him he knew he was not the only one disturbed by this. Instead he brought his horse forward some more towards where he could see the dismounted form of his uncle staring up at the great bronze statue of Lann the Clever that stood over the square, four bronze lions facing the cardinal directions flanking him.

“You sent for me uncle?” Jaime said as he dismounted himself, but his uncle said nothing, instead pointing with a shaky hand towards the statue where he was looking. Jaime turned his attention to where his uncle pointed and for the only time in his life, was he grateful to the Mad King, for if he had not seen the horrors that man had unleashed, he would likely have begun to wretch and fall to his knees.

The four lions were no longer simply made of bronze, instead over them was draped skin, _human_ skin, covering every inch of the lions. Flesh and bones of human bodies tied to the lions, sticking arms and legs out like the spines of a hedgehog along their backs, with the heads of people tied around the lions own heads, and in the case of one lion, placed inside its maw, looking forward out of the mouth. All of the heads had their eyes removed, and their tongues hung outside their mouths in an unnatural way. Around the feet of Lann himself, more bodies were tied together, more limbs sticking out at odd angles, and after a moment Jaime realised the limbs were not place at random, but almost in a shape of a crown. But as bad as that was, the worst was as he looked up at Lann, he saw that the body was draped again in human skin, but on the statues face, a head was bound before it like a mask, and even in death, Jaime recognized the face of his uncle Kevan.

He said nothing, instead standing beside his uncle, horrified and unnerved at what he saw, until he finally found the strength to breath again and in a rushing sound found his hearing return, and heard his uncle’s voice speak softly.

“...he did to Castamere will be as light flurry to a Northern snowstorm.”

Jaime didn’t need to have heard the rest, he could simply have guessed. Instead he turned to his uncle and spoke in a voice that even to himself sounded soft and quiet.

“I will inform Dorna, and Lancel too if she feels the boy is up to it. I’ll also make sure a place of honour is prepared for him in the crypt.”

His uncle looked at him, and in his eyes Jaime saw the same sort of distant almost insane fury he had seen before when Brynden Stark had been choking himself before him. It was cold, hard, and almost seemed to reflect what Jaime himself felt.

“Aye lad” he said, his voice still soft “you do that. I’ll see to his and the others separation, and then, then I have blades to sharpen.”

He turned back away from Jaime to stare more at the grotesque statue, and Jaime forced himself to look away and remount his horse, his did that without thinking though, as his thoughts were singularly focused.

‘Please Gods, please. Let Tyrion be safe.’

***

He could not sleep. The sea spray made that difficult enough, but the cage he was hunched over in did not allow him the space to do anything more than remain in a painful crouch. The cold wind blowing into his face didn’t help, and he felt sure that he was going to die, wished that he would die, for what he had seen haunted him so much that he prayed that _anyone_ would simply strike him down now.

“ _No little lion”_ the voice of his captor came unbidden to him, the cold evil smile staring at him as his uncle Kevan screamed behind his captor as his very skin was flayed from him “ _oh no. You will live. You will remember. You will serve.”_

Those had been the words as Tyrion was forced to watch his uncle tortured before him, killed slowly. His uncle who had tried to hide him when the Ironborn had struck, his uncle who had fought to keep them from him. His uncle who he regretted every bitter thought he had ever had towards. He had then been forced to watch the rest, more men tortured, more men their corpses desecrated, more men nailed to crosses and left as a message only known inside the thoughts of a mad man. Then he had been forced into his current prison, a cage for a large bird that he had barely fit in, and now he hung on an iron hook, from the bow of a ship as it crossed the ocean, only the water below him and the sky above, unable to turn, unable to move, unable to do anything but feel pain.

“ _Oh do not worry little lion”_ his captor had said during the middle of the night before “ _you will arrive on Pyke alive. You are as valuable as the wood in our hold, you will be what_ breaks _the Old Lion. One way or another._ ”

His captor had laughed then, the same laugh that he had let loose as he tortured and killed Tyrion’s uncle, but he should have known he was used to people laughing at him, and while Tyrion was not as brave as Jaime, he was still a Lannister. He _would_ pay his captor every little thing he was owed now, all he had to do was survive, even if death would be so much sweeter.


	33. Chapter 31

**Chapter 31**

**Petyr XXII**

Petyr had insulted a lot of nobles in Westeros over the last eight years. More indirect than direct if truth be told, after all being successful in the world of business as well as the whole “acknowledged bastard daughter” business tended to rub a lot of the older and thus more nobly minded houses the wrong way, mainly because Petyr was usually wealthier than they could ever hope to be and he actually had the balls to not just abandon children to a life of misery because of the circumstances of their conception. Quite frankly, Petyr could live with having people like that feel insulted by him, so long as Stannis or Jon Arryn were not gunning for him, Petyr didn’t care what anyone else thought. Be that as it may though, Petyr had tried to avoid insulting anyone on purpose, and barring one notable case, that had taken no small amount of effort. It also meant that he was aware that when the various ships he was nominally in command of had made landfall at Planky Town, the polite _totally_ optional invitation to dinner waiting for him had been compulsory. He knew the moment he was told who would be commanding the Dornish contingent that he was going to need to be prepared for dealing with House Martell, he just hadn’t quite counted on being oh so politely dragged before all three of them.

The invitation for dinner had been clear, it would be a private affair with Prince Doran, Prince Oberyn and Princess Elia, in one corner, and Petyr Baelish in the other. Ser Davos “Lucky Jammy Bastard” Seaworth had not received such an invitation so Petyr was alone on this matter, which did not help his own anxiety at such a meeting. He had of course met Oberyn and Elia before, but he had deliberately avoided meeting Doran the last time he had been in Dorne, and he hoped that the patriarch of House Martell hadn’t taken that personally. Or at least if he had, he wouldn’t have taken it _too_ personally as Petyr would very much prefer to return home again and not get poisoned and killed before letting the Ironborn have a shot at killing him first, and as his borrowed horse continued to plod along he allowed himself a brief bark of laughter at his own gallows humour, which doubtless had the men escorting him confused, but they were professionals so if they felt anything, they did not display it, instead the ride returned to the silent affair it had been and he tried to calm himself down.

***

The meal had been polite, functional and honestly delicious. The fact he hadn’t blanched at the various spicy foods put before him, even though he knew he’d be paying for it later on a privvy, had robbed the various baby Sand Snakes in attendance of a form of entertainment. It also robbed Doran’s own children of the entertainment too, but Petyr didn’t have a pre-existing prejudice about them, the Sand Snakes however, he couldn’t give a toss. Not because of their parentage, he would be branded, at best, a hypocrite over that if he let such an opinion be known, no, it was because of a trio of bad performances and a plot line that had just seemed to be the idiot ball in writing that had him irked at them, one he never even got to say play out to its probably stupid as hell conclusion. Of course, he was definitely being petty about it, but he was also smart enough to know how to prevent that from coming across too much, years of not straight up shanking various Grafton and Gulltown Arryns had taught him that much at least, and as the plates were cleared away and the younger children disappeared, he allowed himself to ease a little in his seat. Granted, there were still two Snakes left at the table, Obara, an early twenty year old copy of her father, just with a more “will stab you as a warning” vibe as opposed to Oberyn’s more “will warn you then stab” demeanour. Of course it was in contrast to Nymeria, who managed to appear prim and polite and as a proper young lady in every single way, except that her eyes clearly missed nothing and he could see the deadly core within her, more like her father in that regard. And then there was Doran’s own daughter Arianne, who he had known about in theory as frankly his pre-existing knowledge had never included her, thanks adaptive changes, but she was little more than a somewhat awkward teenager clearly at the end of her unfortunate suffering at the hands of puberty. But of the three junior Martell’s present, she was the one who unnerved Petyr the most. The other two were known quantities to him, and would hopefully not be possible threats for a few years yet, if ever, but Arianne was an unknown, and took after her father, a man that Petyr very quickly came to find more terrifying than Oberyn could ever be.

Prince Doran Martell was simply _dangerous_ , not that Petyr was worried about dying in his home, no, the man wouldn’t be actually dumb enough to do that, Petyr’s own thoughts from his journey here aside, but he had a presence to him that simply made it clear to all around them that they lived and breathed by his will alone. He was also observant, watching and considering before he spoke, not simply out of politeness, but out of a desire to say the correct thing. That wasn’t to say he was not polite, far from it, he was also friendly, and he had been more warm and welcoming to Petyr than Petyr himself would have been in the inverse situation, and Petyr could almost, _almost_ buy that Doran wanted to be his friend, but there were just those few movements, those few verbal tics and sentences that made it clear that while Petyr was indeed an honoured guest, if Petyr did anything to threaten Doran or his family, Petyr’s corpse would never be found. Which was damned impressive for a man who clearly was in discomfort when he moved in his seat. He was also a man that was more than willing to sit back and let his siblings, or his brother’s paramour, dig and prod at Petyr for information. Over the meal it had been polite nothings, and general chit-chat, light conversation topics, but as the children departed, Petyr could all but feel the mood in the room change and prepared himself for the worst.

“Lord Baelish” almost on cue it began, but the source was Ellaria Sand from her position leaning into Oberyn across from him at the table, “now that the children have been sent away, I have to ask, did you _really_ manage to insult House Florent to the point that Lord Alestar challenged you to a duel?”

Of all the things he thought he’d be asked about, like the war, goings on in the capital, his travels, he hadn’t expected this particular question, but he should have, and while he tried his best, he couldn’t quite stop himself from rubbing his face with his hand and muttering a bit.

“No” he said finally, and as he did he noticed Oberyn leaning in slightly closer, thus betraying the source of the true intrigue over the matter “Lord Alestar has not challenged me to a duel, nor has he put a price on my head, nor has he had me burnt in effigy and written to the High-Septon to have me declared a heretic or whichever other version of the story you have heard. Oh he hates me, probably, but it is a more impersonal dynastic hatred than anything truly personal you see.”

“Gods Petyr, but what did you do to that poor young woman?” Oberyn asked as he picked a grape from the table and placed it in his mouth.

“Nothing. I did nothing, no matter what _other_ rumour you might hear, I did not write a letter listing all the flaws of Selyse Florent, nor did I name her a rat faced statue with the breeding qualities of a mule, with none of the charisma. That story just got taken out of proportion because I turned down _one_ offer, that is it.”

He truly had tried to be as polite as possible in denying the offer to marry Selyse Florent off to him, the poor woman didn’t deserve anything cruel thrown at her, but the story had grown and changed in the retelling, and while Lord Alestar had been disappointed that Petyr hadn’t been interested in his generous offer to allow him to marry into one of the oldest and most prestigious houses in Westeros, even he’d seemed rather calm over the issue, but yet the rumour mill grew and grew.

“And why did you turn her down?” That question came from Elia Martell who sat at Doran’s left hand, and managed to make such an intrusive and personal question sound off the cuff and innocent.

“Which would you prefer Lady Elia? The polite version or the real version?”

“Both.”

“Very well. The polite version is because I was too busy at the time to possibly settle down into a marriage with such a pristine and prestigious lady from such an esteemed house. The real version is because I’m not particularly interested at this moment in time. I still have a couple of years before the issue has to be resolved and frankly I’ll deal with it when it happens.”

“Ah, the fabled deadline that Lord Arryn has given you then? Oh don’t look so shocked Petyr, half the nobility in Westeros knows about it by now.”

Petyr tried to settle his face from the semi-shocked expression he had shown when Oberyn mentioned the deadline that Petyr had when it came to issues of marriage, it was not, as he understood it, common knowledge, but that someone like Oberyn, and by extension the whole of House Martell, would know about it was to be expected.

“Yes, yes that minor detail. Though frankly you would think having someone in position to take over the family name already lined up would have earned me a reprieve from all that.”

“Speaking as one parent of base born daughters to another Petyr, to most it will not be.”

Oberyn spoke with a large theatrical wink and a smile as he spoke, and the smirks that broke out on the remaining Sand Snakes at the table seemed to mirror their father’s own smile.

“On that subject, tell me about your daughter Petyr, please.”

Elia asked politely as she refilled her own cup and stared intently at Petyr, and Petyr tried to not totally appear desperately grateful to avoid the awkwardness of the topic of marriage and his near fanatical opposition to it.

“Pol is like any seven year old girl. Full of the joy of life and desire to do everything the boys can do. Horse riding, sword training, archery, all that fun stuff. Of course trying to get her to apply the same enthusiasm to her studies is like trying to teach a donkey to juggle sometimes.”

“A universal trait Lord Baeilsh that is shared amongst daughters, at least until they begin to learn the arts of deception and trickery.”

Prince Doran spoke while patting the hand of his own daughter who simply stuck her tongue out at him, an action that earned her a hearty laugh from her father and uncle, with a smile from her aunt thrown in for good measure.

“Well I’m looking forward to her reaching those points, if I have her armed correctly and trained in the finer arts, she will be able to raise all sorts of merry hell across the nation. I am however not looking forward to having to pay for those damages.”

He spoke with a smile at that remark and was greeted with a few chuckles from around the table. It helped that it was true, Pol was being raised almost uniquely in all of Westeros, and Petyr had no intention of sparing her from having to build the sort of rat-bastard cunning he himself had in spades. But he noticed Elia looking at him intently again, and he braced himself for the question he was pretty sure was about to follow.

“What about her mother though? I mean we are hardly ones to judge with regards to a persons chosen lovers, but what was she like?”

Petyr had to fight down a sharp feeling of guilt and pain at the thought of Pol’s mother, no matter what he did, no matter how he tried to fight that memory, the sight of her dying was a horror that would never leave him, her dying, her raspy voice speaking to him, imploring him. Her face sunken and almost a completely hollow echo of what it had once been. Instead he took a deep breath and let some of that emotion touch him as he spoke.

“She was a special woman. Beautiful in a strong way, had taken what the world had to throw at her and not simply taken it, but done so with a grace that few would ever think possible. She had the blood of Valyria flowing in her veins, not simply in her looks, but in her demeanour, and that is what drew me to her I suppose. I wish Pol could have known her more, that I could have known her more, but such was not to be.”

A silence descended upon the room as he finished, and he didn’t bother to meet anyone’s eyes, simply he took another drink and tried to calm himself down. But the silence continued to grow so instead he let out a bitter laugh and looked up.

“Well, with that cheerful mood established” he said looking between Doran and Oberyn “let us discuss exactly how many of your finest soldiers I have to make Ser Seaworth fit into the ships and more importantly, where I’m going to fit all the provisions to care for them?”

***

The wind pulled and drove forward around the rigging and sails of the _Titan’s Sprint_ which was fine as she moved forward at the point of an inverted v formation of Petyr’s various ships. The five vessels were a ways away from the rest of the Royal Navy, which was fine as Petyr was ostensibly using their superior speed to scout ahead of the main fleet as they sailed up the western coast of Westeros. The reality, as Davos and he knew, was not for that purpose, but to allow Petyr’s crews some time to get training in before the screaming and dying had to begin. The crews were not aware of that, he had made damned sure that the captain’s knew he would be very angry if any of the crews were made aware of the surprise drills he had planned, and as he stood up from his usual sitting position he looked down at the busy, as in normal level of busyness, of a ship underway. Some men were mopping decks to keep them clean, not out of any hygienic concern but simply so that if a man needed his feet to find purchase on the wooden decks it wouldn’t be betrayed because garbage or bird shit was there instead. Speaking of bird shit, he looked towards the cages that contained the small number of chickens he had aboard the vessel. He didn’t like keeping them in cages all the time, but letting them loose on the deck would be asking for trouble, not least of which because he’d seen the large grey mottled bastard that passed for a ship’s cat on the _Sprint_ and didn’t doubt it would happily take one of the chickens if given even half a chance. The chickens however did seem to have their own method of getting revenge, if the number of times the cook’s assistant had been bitten by them was anything to judge by anyway, if nothing else the sheer glee that man had developed when one of the creatures stopped laying eggs and he could get it in the pot seemed to indicate that it was a war of minds that the chickens seemed to be winning. He looked from the cages towards where a couple of older ships hands were watching some of the newer men try to coil rope properly, and chastising them when they inevitably fouled up somehow, an action that Petyr admitted he found entertaining in a sadistic sense, all and all, things were perfectly normal.

“I think now Master Seaworth.”

He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t even turn to look at Allard Seaworth who was standing nearby to Petyr’s side, after having Petyr helping him to catch up on learning his letters properly.

“Yes my Lord, at once.”

With that Petyr heard the footsteps as he passed by Petyr’s blind side and approached Captain Delver. He didn’t hear exactly what Seaworth said to him, he didn’t need to, instead he readied himself to watch the crews reactions as Delver roared across the deck.

“All hands to quarters, prepare to repel boarders!”

Delver’s voice carried well over the ships upper deck, and within seconds the men underneath him in the ships’s chain of command were roaring and cajoling, and Petyr could hear the distant sounds of voices coming from the decks below him as well. He watched as men abandoned tasks or simply moved from where they had been to get themselves ready as if the Ironborn were about to be atop them any moment. He watched as men manhandled weapons into emplacements, some that would be expected to anyone on Planetos in this situation, some that only someone with a mind from another world could have thought up. Armed and armoured men, armoured with a cuirass that could be quickly escaped from in the event of entering the water that was, took up positions along the top deck as between them other men hauled shielding alongside the vessel while above the sails were trimmed back into a fighting stance. As the sails finished being put away, Petyr picked up the Myrish telescope he had bought a couple of years back and looked towards his other vessels. As he had expected, they had followed suit once they had noticed that the _Sprint_ had done so and he could see the hustle and bustle of activity on their decks mirroring what was before him as they also carried out their own drills.

His ships were also free of additional personnel to get in the way as the Dornish troops, and their commander, were billeted amongst Davos ships, not Petyr’s. Getting Oberyn to agree to that had not been particularly easy, he had wanted to see one of Petyr’s fabled “Runners” and of course desired nothing more than to have an opportunity to mess with Petyr’s head for the length of the journey, probably, but logic had won out in the end, and Petyr had made it clear that Davos’s ships, not his own, were the ones handling troops. Which made sense, as in any naval engagement, he didn’t want his vessels tied up and pinned down in the typical style of naval boarding actions for any longer than they had to be. His advantages were speed and size, he could use that better harassing and disrupting any formations than as simply another vessel of the line. And if what he had thought up worked properly, barring the demon Murphy sticking his head into the whole affair, his five ships would do more damage than anyone else could have expected, and he thanked the corpses of many pirates for their assistance in helping him be prepared for this.

***

They had barely passed Three Towers when a single ship flying the silver cup and black rose of House Costayne started towards the fleet. Petyr had ordered a return to the more convoy like formation they had settled into on the trip down from King’s Landing, and as the other ship came closer he ordered the _Sprint_ to break from the formation and make to intercept her. Once again he kicked himself over net getting some sort of signal flag or semaphore system up and running to allow communication between ships, instead he would have to rely on Davos knowing that if Petyr was going to intercept a friendly ship, it probably was because the other ship had news, news that Davos would need to get ready to board Petyr’s ship to hear.

As the two vessels drew closer to each other, and Petyr did his best to ignore the snort of derision from his Captain at the handling of the Costayne ships crew, he picked up the one thing he had made sure to have to make communication a bit better, the leather speaking trumpet, and raised it to his lips.

“Ahoy there” he couldn’t resist the nautical terminology “please identify yourselves as you are approaching the Royal Fleet!”

The response came a fair bit fainter, being as it was shouted from cupped hands, but even though he needed a minute to parse it all in his head, it was still clear.

“We are carrying Lord Tommen Costayne, he brings word for the commander of the Royal Fleet from Oldtown.”

“I see” he said again into the trumpet “please bring yourself to a halt and prepare to transfer him to this ship please, he will be conveyed to the commander of the Fleet as soon as he can be aboard.”

There was a shouted affirmation, but Petyr didn’t bother to listen to it specifically, instead he turned to Allard.

“Have the Lord meet me in the cabin below, and have Owen get something light but hot together for him. After that, keep an eye out for your father, and if he gets in distance ask him to come aboard.”

“Aye my Lord.”

Was all the response he got from the young man, but it was combined with a quick salute of a hand over his chest as he took off towards the galley. Say what he wanted to about his personality and general snarkiness, but Allard Seaworth knew how to be a professional when one was called for. Petyr in turn made his way towards the Captain’s cabin on the ship that had become his cabin when he had billeted aboard. There had been some reshuffling of who was sleeping were, but he tried not to feel too bad for whoever had drawn the short end of the stick as he had also insisted on Allard sleeping with the men in the hammocks. As he entered the cook’s assistant stuck his head in and Petyr called him over to him with a single crooked finger.

“Tom, go rustle up my best bottle of whiskey we have and three glasses, when his Lordship appears, if he says yes to the food bring that, if he says no then bring them in, pour two glasses, and then make yourself scarce but on hand, understood?”

“Yes m’lord.” Came the response, it sounded slightly odd as Tom, no surname given, was missing more than a few teeth, combined with a thick Northern accent, he could be borderline indecipherable at times, but Petyr had done his best to understand the man.

That done, Petyr waited and roughly ten minutes later, or at least what felt like ten minutes, he heard the wrap of a hand on his cabin door.

“Enter.”

He had barely finished the word when Allard entered and sketched a shallow bow towards him.

“Apologies your Lordship, but Lord Costayne is now aboard and wishes to see you now.”

“Understood Master Seaworth, please show him in.”

Allard turned and permitted the Reach Lord into the cabin before withdrawing himself, and closing the door behind him.

Lord Tommen Costayne was a man of average height and heavy build, not necessarily fat but stoutness, and he sported a rather impressive pair of black moustachios that sat under a large nose with dark eyes, his black hair was receding, but he didn’t appear too much older than Petyr himself. His appearance put Petyr in mind of a boar, but not as ugly. It also meant that when the man opened his mouth to speak, Petyr was caught off guard by the high-pitched voice that came out of him.

“Lord Petyr Baelish? I am here with a dispatch from Oldtown for you. Normally I’d leave this up to someone else to do but my ship has been held up from joining the Redwyne Fleet waiting for you, so I figured to kill two birds with a single arrow.”

He spoke with a jovial enough tone, even though Petyr was finding himself hung up on the pitch of the mans voice.

“Well met then Lord Tommen, can I interest you in some refreshment before we begin? I believe the galley will be sending up some soup and bread? The news you are bringing me has waited this long, what is another few minutes? If nothing else, I would prefer Ser Davos Seaworth join us if the news concerns the fleets.”

The man’s face seemed to perk up a bit and Petyr suddenly reckoned that Lord Costayne was one unlikely to turn down a meal that was offered to him.

“That would be wonderful, as you say, a few minutes is not going to make a large difference.”

Lord Costayne had barely finished speaking and sitting down in a vacant chair when Tom appeared with a tray carrying a pair of wooden bowls that had steam rising from them, as well as a loaf of bread. Petyr didn’t have to look to see what was in them, the ships stores had still been well stocked before landing at Planky Town, and barring a few replacement chickens and some of the shorter life supplies, restocking hadn’t been necessary. This meant that a lot of non-root vegetables were still onboard and in a condition to be eaten as opposed to slopped out, granted they were probably a bit more wrinkly than fresh, but they were still fine, and Owen Mallard, the ship’s cook, was very good at combining the lot of them into a good soup. The bread would have been fresh that morning, and while it was a small loaf, it would be plenty for the sake of enjoying with the soup.

He sat and ate with Lord Tommen for about a half hour before he was interrupted again but Allard Seaworth, but this time he had his father in tow, and after a brief round of introductions, Petyr and Davos were finally ready to listen to whatever Lord Tommen had been sent out to say.

“Lord Baelish” he began, stopped, and nodded a curt but polite nod to Davos as well “and Ser Davos as well, in fairness. I was tasked with informing you that the Redwyne Fleet, under command of Lord Paxter Redwyne, departed from Oldtown on the first tide two days ago. They were reacting to reports of a raiding fleet of Ironborn sighted off the Shield Islands. The Islands themselves know how to react to any such raiding parties, and it was Lord Paxter’s intention to catch the Ironborn still ashore or just returning to the sea. The force was supposed to be a small one, possibly a splinter of the main Ironborn force, so by bringing his fleet to bare, it was hoped he could capture some Ironborn captains for information on the main fleet’s composition.”

Petyr schooled himself to remain calm. The orders from Stannis had been crystal clear, and while he couldn’t fault Lord Paxter’s logic, he _could_ damned well condemn him for going against the orders. The Royal Fleet and Redwyne Fleet together should be large enough to deal with the Ironborn, but Petyr didn’t want to make those odds any thinner than he absolutely had to, and that meant having every ship he could in the best fighting condition possible. If Paxter was successful, he would still be losing men and damaging ships that would need time to replenish, time that Petyr didn’t want to give the Ironborn. And that was if the intelligence he was acting on was correct, if not.

“Forgive me my lord’s” Davos said “but did Lord Paxter make any mention about how he might react if this was a trap?”

The words from Davos’s mouth sounded to Petyr as if they had materialised from his head, so in line they were with what he had been thinking. If Paxter had taken his fleet into an Ironborn trap, and the Gods knew the Ironborn could be crafty little bastards when they needed to, the situation could be much, much worse. So he studied the face of Lord Tommen as the man responded.

“No, Ser Davos, he did not. The Redwyne fleet and Lord Paxter are capable though, so I doubt he would fall into such a trap.”

“That may be the case Lord Tommen” Petyr said, and he forced some levity into his voice as he spoke “but I think myself and Ser Davos should adjust our plans in case. Failure to prepare, after all, is naught but preparing for failure.”

The old quote slipped out from between his teeth with remarkable ease, and Lord Tommen’s face first seemed surprised and then he smiled widely.

“By the Seven Lord Petyr, but your reputation is correct when it comes to a way with words. “Failure to prepare is naught but preparing for failure”. That is a _good_ one. Yes indeed, what you say makes sense, and I am to place myself and my ship as part of your command, if you will permit me?”

“You would be under the command of Ser Davos, Lord Tommen. I am leaving the command and handling of all but a small number ships to him. Would that be agreeable with you?”

“An experienced seaman with the trust of His Grace himself? How could I possibly find that disagreeable?”

Lord Costayne went up a few points in Petyr’s estimation with his answer, and he didn’t appear to be lying through his teeth as he said it either.

***

The Royal Fleet entered Oldtown as one united force, Petyr reckoned that having his ships show up first to be followed by the rest of the fleet would do nothing but perhaps make him appear to be an arrogant arse. He didn’t particularly want to do that, as by dealing with the lords of the Reach, Lord Costayne excluded, he would be up to his eyeball in arrogant arses for the next while. There was not much fanfare greeting their arrival, and not too many of the local notables either as the majority of the Reach’s forces had marched north towards Casterly Rock where the various forces would ultimately be pooled together for the campaign. This meant that the majority of Petyr’s time was spent overlooking the disembarking of the Dornish troops, they would be marching north soon as all Petyr had done was basically shave about a week and a half off their transit time, as well as taking on the final stores for the Royal Fleet before it would be patrolling through hostile waters. He entertained the possibility of a visit to the Citadel himself, but thought against it as while the issue over the University he had planned for back in Gulltown was settled, for now, he would rather not go there and wind up insulting someone and causing the whole mess to kick off again. He did however find it a fascinating piece of architecture to look at from a distance.

He was about three days into residing in Oldtown when the first ships of the Rewyne fleet arrived, he was standing on the deck of Black Bertha, Davos’s own ship, when the first ones were spotted, and as he trained his Myrish glass on the lead ship, he felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.

“Fuck.” Was all he said, and wordlessly he handed it to Davos who trained it quickly on the vessels as well. The older man said nothing, but Petyr could all but feel the tension in the man’s body grow beside him.

“What do you reckon then Davos?” he asked, as he held a hand out for the glass that was returned to him.

“The part of me that likes to think everything will go well is saying it is nothing to worry about, maybe they got engaged early and Lord Paxter ordered them back early.”

“And the part of you that knows we live in the real world?”

“That it _was_ a trap.”

Petyr said nothing in response as he continued to survey the ships approaching Oldtown through the glass. Their rigging was torn, and from the way they were moving through the water, they were clearly damaged. He hoped that Davos’s optimistic side was correct, because if it wasn’t, the fight against the Ironborn was about to get a lot more bloody.


	34. Chapter 32

**Chapter 32**

**Various IV**

The Redwyne Fleet was no more. Scattered and broken to the four winds before the might of the Ironborn, it should have been a cause for great celebration, and indeed as the cheers of his men still resounded around him, Victarion Greyjoy found he could not join them. He did not begrudge them it, he would have to be a man more petty than the most craven of mainlander to do that, but still, he felt his own worries in his mind resound. Twice so far in this war Euron had made plans, plans that he had gotten Balon to acquiesce to, and twice so far they had worked. Lannisport had fallen, vital supplies and treasure captured alongside thralls and saltwives. Timbers, ship provisions, the destruction of Lannisport had made it so that the Ironborn had been able to raise and muster an even greater force than they had before. Then Euron’s tricks had worked again here, drawing the Redwyne fleet out of hiding early and now smashing them in their arrogance, but while the fleet may have been smashed, he couldn’t help but feel they had missed the main target of their hunt.

Paxtor Redwyne had escaped, his flagship, tattered and damaged yes, but still capable of fleeing. Victarion wished dearly to pursue him, to find him, to drive his own axe through the craven’s soft flesh, but he could not. As much as he wished to take time to savour the victory that surrounded him, he could not. The fleet had taken damage, it needed time to patch holes, to abandon those ships good only for driftwood, to move the crews around so they could be back at full strength, but even then, he knew he needed to move. The Ironborn needed to drive onto the Arbor, that had been Euron’s words from Balon’s lips. It would hold supplies that would make Lannisport seem like a minnow, or at least that was what was promised from Euron. If they could take the Arbor, loot it like they had Lannisport, Euron had insisted that they would have the makings of a fleet that would allow the Ironborn to take Oldtown itself, and with that, demand whatever it wanted from the Stag King. Balon had been in favour of that, of course, but in talks of what to do with Oldtown, Euron’s eyes had taken on a look to them when he claimed a desire to break the Citadel itself, a look that Victarion had only seen in the most fanatical of the Drowned Gods followers. A look Euron had possessed, when he done what he did in Lannisport. But he needed time, and though Euron had encouraged him to be hasty, in this he could not wait.

***

Lord Paxtor Redwyne was in a terrible state as he sat in the captains cabin of the _Titan’s Sprint_ , he had clearly not slept for some time, his clothing was torn, at least where the armour he had disregarded had not been able to cover it, and he had a bandage from a Maester wrapped around his brow. To Allard Seaworth, the much older man simply looked like a man who had just about walked away from a tavern brawl that he probably should not have. But as the commander of the Redwyne fleet finished telling his report of the combat, Allard turned to study the face of the man who his father had entrusted him to, and Lord Petyr Baelish’s expression was a solid mask. An expression Allard knew to mean that the one-eyed songbird was thinking hard.

“ _Stick with him lad”_ came the memories of his father’s voice that first evening “ _he has a pirates own luck and a mind like a razor. If nothing else, you’ll learn a lot more than simply how to lead a ship from him._ ”

Allard had to admit, he felt his father had only been halfway correct. Lord Baelish clearly couldn’t teach Allard how to lead a ship, he had learned a lot more from Captain Delver in that regard, but he had been a source of interest in other ways. For one, he wasn’t dumb enough to throw his title around and insist he knew best, he would ask a question if he did not know the answer, and let those who did know it actually explain it to him. For another, he was also without the stick up his arse that Allard was certain all noblemen were born with, but so far this hullabaloo had shown he wasn’t. He also had an ability to just throw words around, like hullabaloo, that sounded completely foreign to Allard, but he found he liked it, as he did others, once he cornered the Lord into explaining them to him.

“Well Lord Redwyne” Baelish said, and Allard turned his attention back to the man, he had been tasked with sitting in on this meeting so he could relay it to his father, Lord Baelish not wasting any time and having intercepted the battered hull of Redwyne’s own flagship to collect him “I am not going to piss on you and tell you it is raining. My orders were simply to shepherd the fleet here to put under your own command, so that the combined Royal and Redwyne fleets could smash the Ironborn before carrying on up the coast to start ferrying troops. But now...” Baelish trailed off, simply raising his hands up and shrugging.

“But now Lord Baelish, my own fleet is either battered, sunk or captured, meaning that the Royal fleet and whatever we can get repaired or pressed into service is all that is on this side of Westeros.”

“Yes, it is. But we do have one advantage though that they do not.”

“Oh?”

“You, Lord Redwyne. You now know their tactics, you are not going to fall for the same deception again, and while I grant you the Royal fleet may not be the same as the one you already commanded, it is not simply a collection of fishing boats given spears and told they are warships now. My orders have not changed, and as such this whole operation is now under your command.”

Operation. Another new word for Allard, and judging from the brief confusion on Redwyn’s face, for the lord as well. But the older, wounded man didn’t dwell on it instead recovering and speaking back.

“I appreciate that Lord Baelish, but how we are to best use what we have is something I find myself at odds over. Mainly I confess a sense of indecision over what to do next. As I see it, there are three possibilities for the Ironborn next, and I just don’t know which they are likely to go for. The first is that they retreat now back to their isles to recover, my men may have been bested, but we still gave a damn good show.”

Redwyne had sat up slightly straighter in his chair and seemed to pump out his chest as he said that, and Baelish simply raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture.

“No one doubts that Lord Redwyne, least of all some upstart Braavosi who barely can tell his aft from his elbow.”

“I know Lord Baelish, I know, just defeat stings worse than any bee. As for the other two options, they both are based on the idea that they do not retreat to repair or recover, but instead wait for a while to patch what they can, and then drive on, and that leaves only two targets of any value. Here” he said waving around him to indicate all of Oldtown “or the Arbor.”

There was a slight catch to Redwyne’s voice as he spoke the name of his home, and Allard did not blame him. The tales were flying high and strong in the taverns in Oldtown of what had happened at Lannisport, and while they were not as intense, there were other ones about the myriad of other places that the Ironborn had raided as well. If even only half of them wasn’t total horseshit, then Allard would understand why a man might not like to imagine it happening to his own home.

“I see.” Said Baelish as he leaned forward to peer at a chart of the seas off the Reach, it wasn’t very detailed, but it did allow a man a better idea of the realities that surrounded them in the seas nearby. Baelish had told him that it had been done by one of his own captains, that he paid them a good sum to accurately chart the seas and ports that any of his ships sailed into, and that the captains logs of directions and weather were also being collected to help form a better understanding of the world. It was things like that that made Allard realise his father hadn’t been _incorrect_ either in saying he would learn things from Baelish.

There was a long pause as Baelish studied the chart, and then he looked at Redwyne again.

“I may not know war Lord Redwyne, nor do I know the inner workings of an Ironbron’s mind, but I do know a thing or two about taking risks. If I was in command of the Ironborn, I would not dream of attacking Oldtown without a much larger and well armed force.”

“Many would say the same of taking Lannisport Lord Baelish.”

“And they would be correct, except Lannisport was, if half the tales are correct anyway, taken by deception and guile. Such things _can_ be devastatingly effective, but only once. Because once the mummer’s trick is out, anyone can see how it is done, and Oldtown is on far too much of an edge now to allow itself to be taken by anything but force or divine intervention. No, and I mean not to distress you, but I would target the Arbor.”

“As would I Lord Baelish, I just did not want to say such a thing aloud.”

“I can understand why, and we can wish that they instead are retreating to repair and resupply, if for no other reason than the hope that we can catch them on the backfoot.”

“But you can wish in one hand Lord Baelish, and shit in the other. Gods damn it to hell, I wish we had more time, but if we are to have any chance of catching the bastards, we need to be leaving on the first tide.”

“Command is yours Lord Redwyne, just give the word and I’ll have young Seaworth there” Baelish said pointing to him for the second time the whole time that Redwyne had been ushered into the cabin “on a boat to deliver the order to the rest of the fleet as swiftly as I can.”

“Do so then. I’ll try and see which of my ships only need light repair and bodies, then I will take position in the fleet to command. They caught me once, now I’ll catch them. By the Stranger I will catch them.”

***

Two days. The fleet had lost two days to trying to patch up from what the soft mainlanders had done to them. Even then, some of his ships were noticeably lagging behind the main body as they either still had damaged sails, or insufficient rowers. That alone would have been enough to put him on edge, but then the day before Euron had arrived to join the fight. He had missed the first battle, some excuse about “setting things in motion” back on Pyke, and didn’t that statement just bring joy to Victarion, that his brothers were up to something he wasn’t aware of in the slightest. It had taken everything in his power to not just punch his brother in his smug face then and there, bad enough that after what he had done in Lannisport he and his men could guarantee that every single man in the Arbor was going to fight to the last meaning it was going to be an even bloodier task than he had feared in the first place. Luckily enough though, he knew the Arbor well enough that no matter how badly they fought, the defenders were going to be at a disadvantage. Years of trade and sailing during the Stag’s peace had allowed him to get a _very_ good view of the place, and he had prided himself on stealing from settlements and vineyards on the island for years, unseen and undetected.

To a true Ironborn, it was almost too easy to attack this place, even if the people were more motivated. Ryamsport wouldn’t have close to enough men to do too much damage, especially as a not small number of them were now in residence with the Drowned God, even then, the plan wasn’t to hit Ryamsport head on, instead the fleet would loop around Bastard’s Cradle and catch the town on the landward side, the side that was almost undefended as, after all, who would attack overland on the Arbor? He found himself grinning at that, if the fools were dumb enough to not bother to fortify their homes and livelihoods to anything but the sea, then it was almost as if they were asking for what he and his men would unleash.

***

The _Titan’s Sprint_ had not become the lead ship of the entire fleet, instead Lord Paxtor had moved to one of his own ships that had been in better condition, and so it took a bit of time for a boat to arrive to carry Lord Baelish and Allard across so they could meet with both Allard’s father and Lord Paxtor. Lord Baelish did not seem to particularly enjoy the experience in the smaller boat on the somewhat choppy seas, especially as it got closer to any of the larger ships, but Allard was practically at home in the seas as they moved forward.

“Ned would probably rather I cut his throat than do this again.”

Lord Baelish said aloud, but to no-one in particular. Allard had noticed he had a habit of doing that when he didn’t want to focus on what was going on, he would talk to the world with no expectation that anyone would respond. As they finally came alongside the Redwyne ship, Allard made the jump from the boat to the steps alongside with ease and scrambled up, once there he allowed himself a moment to get used to the ships pitch and roll and turned to watch Lord Baelish attempt the same. He watched as Baelish _almost_ timed it just right, but instead of getting a firm grip and starting to climb, the Lord almost slammed into the hull of the vessel. Allard half prepared to get a rope to assist the Lord, but he eventually started to move and after a while unceremoniously flopped onto the deck.

“Allard. Have I ever mentioned how much I hate losing my depth perception?”

“Yes my Lord. You have mentioned it once or twice.”

“Uhuh. Well please remember when we get back to the _Sprint_ , I’ve had an idea on how to use a pulley to avoid that fucking nonsense.”

“Is this the same idea you had after Plankytown with a chair and ropes? The same idea you abandoned after it nearly went skidding off the other side?”

Lord Baelish gave Allard a very wounded look before he spoke.

“Yes. No. Well, sort of. Shut up. Let’s go and get this over with. Quicker its done, quicker I can go pancake myself against one of _my_ ships instead.”

Allard said nothing, instead moving to fall into step behind and to the left of Baelish as a Redwyne servant who had been standing by watching their exchange led them towards the aft of the ship and Lord Paxtor’s quarters.

Outside of a brief nod to his father, Allard did what he learned to do so well at this sort of meeting and meld into the hull as a piece of furniture and let his mind wander, only really keeping a vague attention to what was said as it doubtless had nothing to do with him. He only found himself snapping back to paying attention as Lord Baelish stood up from the seat he had taken and spoke.

“So we know their rough speed and general heading. As much as I want to catch them before they hit the ground, there is the possibility that we might not. Lord Paxtor, if that happens, what do you want to do?”

“Want to do? Simple, land ourselves, go in there, and kill each one of the damned whoresons before they can do any damage to my people. But while that is what I _want_ to do, it is not the wisest thing to do. If we catch them after they have made landfall, and Gods does it pain me to say this, we burn their ships and leave them stuck there. My people will suffer, but it will leave the bastards stranded there, and as good swimmers as they are, they would not be getting back to their islands anytime soon. Then after the his Grace has finished bleaching the bones of every single one of them on their islands, I can hopefully get him to come down here and properly clear out my island. Get the bastards in chains and let them work to rebuild what they will have destroyed.”

There was real anger and heat behind Redwyn’s voice as he spoke, and Allard found himself looking to his own father who simply sat with crossed arms and nodded in agreement.

“My Lord,” Baelish said after a moment “I sincerely hope it doesn’t come to that, and if what that fishing vessel tells us is right, I promise you, it won’t. But if it does, I will not return home until every Ironborn that has invaded your home is dealt with, one way or the other.”

That was a further aspect of Baelish that Allard had picked up, he would give his word in grand statements as if to assuage the concerns of the other party, but so far Allard had yet to see him actually _break_ any vow he had given, and he knew that Baelish would remain to clear out the Arbor after the war, and that he would drag Allard and the rest of his crews to do it as well.

“I appreciate that Lord Baelish, I do truly. But if we have the measure of this right, we will catch them off Stonecrab Cay and either drive them back out to sea, or back around by the Bastard’s Cradle and the rocks that lurk there.”

***

It turned out that the two days he had spent had been enough time to give his enemies enough time to rally and sail out again. He hadn’t known that the Stag’s “Royal Fleet” had been in the area, that it had been on its way, aye, but not so close. If he had known that, he wouldn’t have wasted time and instead driven on to the Arbor to do the work he needed to as quickly as he could. But when a shark has you be the arm, you don’t wish you’d found a tuna. Instead he ordered the fleet to start taking positions and prepare to fight. Euron was somewhere off the other side of the fleet, his brother would doubtless pick his moment to sweep in and hit the enemy from the sides. That mattered little, after all the Ironborn knew how to fight at sea, every ship captain knowing their individual role and position. All that mattered now was the pull of oars as their longships cut through the water moving ever closer to their enemy. To his own flanks he had his nephews Rodrick and Maron, each commanding their own ships. Rodrick had planned to raid Seagard was talked out of it by Euron, Maron wouldn’t have had a ship if not for the supplies taken from Lannisport. He turned to look at both ships and felt a grin break out on his face, he was only their uncle, aye, but he felt a pride in them at their being here that he was sure he’d feel only again with his own sons. Their three ships were heading straight for the largest ship in the Royal Fleet, one of five that seemed to be separate from the others. A supply ship most likely, and thus, a good target. From its top mast, hanging lazily in the wind, was a simple banner of a silver bird on black field.

***

Allard felt his hand tightening on the shaft of the axe he had in his hands as he watched the Ironborn vessels coming ever closer. He forced himself to relax his grip again, for the hundredth time or so this day, and tried to casually look from the oncoming ships to Lord Baelish. The older man stood on the rail running around the sterncastle of the ship, or what everyone else in Westeros called the aftercastle of the ship, and didn’t seem to be worried in the slightest. Allard knew it had to be a lie, that Lord Baelish had to be nervous, but he didn’t seem any more rattled now in his breastplate and leathers, large strange curved sword at his side, than he had been when he had ordered a hot meal to the men only an hour ago. The meal was long gone, devoured by any who took it, and if it was meant to make people feel better as they headed into battle, well to Allard at least, it had worked. Captain Delver had explained to him that it was standard practice on all of Lord Baelish’s ships to do that, and that the crew knew it, but that it was Lord Baelish himself giving that order had meant a lot.

It was one of the things that the Lord had done to get his mens loyalty, the other was that he had made arrangements so that any man who died her today wouldn’t be leaving behind a struggling family. He had called it a “pension” and that it would be paid out to the survivors of any man who died here today. It was a change of his method of paying the majority of his sailors wages to their families while they were at sea, that way meaning families weren’t struggling while their husbands, or sons, or whatever else were far away and unable to provide. It was a little thing, but it had done a lot to guarantee his men’s loyalty, and it was one of those things that Allard had paid special attention to. He felt he wanted to say something to Lord Baelish all of a sudden, to thank him in case he wouldn’t see him again, to ask him to tell his father he fought bravely, to say something, anything, but before he could, Lord Baelish pushed himself away from the railing and passed him to stare down at the men on deck.

“Men.” He spoke with his voice loud and quickly had drawn the attention of the men below. “It is at this point in all the mummers tales that the hero says something inspiring and witty to all the forces of good. However I’m a one eyed jumped up foreign bastard, so I’m not the hero.”

Despite himself Allard found himself grinning at the jape, and there was a rumble of laughter from below.

“So instead, I say simply this. Our ship is strong, I know you bunch of rapscallion bastards are dangerous mother fuckers, and we have all drilled for this exact moment. So I wouldn’t rather have any other bunch of dangerous back stabbing whoresons on my side this side of the Warrior’s own heaven.”

That drew a cheer from the deck, but as it played out, Lord Baelish withdrew a piece of parchment from his belt and opened it before him.

“I also now give you a message straight from His Grace the King. One he entrusted me with from the moment this mission began to be told to you only on the eve of our victory. So important it is that I have made sure each captain here today knows it and will tell his men when they see us fly our flag. It reads simply this: Westeros expects every man to do his duty.”

With that Baelish turned to look at him and Allard gulped as he pulled on the rope and a simple flag made its way up the lines of the ship to hang above him. It was a simple square made of a further four squares, two red and two white, chequered against each other. And as it flew, Baelish spoke again.

“Gentlemen. The King!”

He roared out the last part, and the voices of the crew roared it back, and as they did they heard the same noise come across from the other ships of the fleet across the rather calm waters.

***

Victarion didn’t know what had happened to make such a noise come from his enemy, and frankly he didn’t care.

“Perhaps they have just seen us and are finally shitting themselves in terror.” Came the voice of one of his men, and that drew laughs from the rowers benches and even he felt a smile on his face. He turned to stare at them then, smile still on his face as he spoke.

“Well then, let us make sure they know we are here.” He turned back towards the other ships, and allowed himself to be taken into the beat of the oars dipping and shifting in the water, let the true joy of imminent battle and destruction seep into him, and he began the chant of the Ironborn warrior at sea.

“ _Let us go, to the depths below._

_Let us go, to the God’s drowned hall.”_

He repeated it again and again, and as he did he didn’t truly hear the voices of his fellow Ironborn, he knew that they were repeating with him. No, he felt as if the eyes of his every ancestor where on him, beside him, smiling on him for what was to come.

***

The sound of the droning chant reached the _Titan’s Sprint_ and Allard found himself gulping. He couldn’t hear the actual words, but he didn’t need to to know what the droning was. It was the Ironborn’s war chant, and he felt his hand tightening on the axe’s handle again. He didn’t want to hear it, but it just kept coming as the Ironborn drew closer and closer. But then a noise from near him cut into it and he saw Lord Baelish. He stomped his feet and then slapped his chest. It looked insane, as if the one eyed man had lost his mind, but as Allard watched, he found he couldn’t look away at the rhythm.

Stomp.

Stomp.

Slap.

Stomp.

Stomp.

Slap.

He found himself joining in, almost as if against his very will, and as he did, he found a crazy grin on his face. He didn’t hear the Ironborn any more, just his own beat matching that of Lord Baelish. And as he joined in the pattern, he heard it reverberate across the ships as the other men aboard joined in and as the Ironborn got closer, he found he didn’t care. He just didn’t want to interrupt the beat.

Stomp.

Stomp.

Slap.

***

The enemy were doing _something_ to try and keep their own rhythm, but considering the large ships didn’t even have rowers Victarion found himself puzzled at that. Had these foolish mainlanders really gone mad with fear at the sight of them?

Well, even if they had, it wouldn’t matter to him as his longship came on ever forward, he turned his head to regard his nephews and saw that Rodrick’s longship had come to overtake his, so eager was his nephew to reach the enemy first. He smiled at that, the exuberance of a young man determined for glory, he wouldn’t seek to stop his nephew, he would let him go first, let him have the first glory. It was not as if there would be none to go around this day.

***

The stomping and slapping stopped almost at once as Allard saw one of the Ironborn ships come closer, and he turned his attention down to the deck as weapons were readied. Almost all along the railing around the edge of the ship, two men teams turned their attention as the Ironborn crossed the line known to the weapons operators as the point to start attacking, and as the first volley of crossbow bolts went out, he watched them fly towards the Ironborn ship.

***

The first thought through Victarion’s mind was that the mainlanders had to be fools. Bringing crossbows to a naval battle was, maybe not a bad idea in general, but their slow mechanisms to string them again to loose more bolts meant that they were a poor substitute at sea for a team of archers, but he could see no archers on the enemy deck, just men standing in pairs. He watched the volley of crossbow bolts hit his nephew’s ship. Some men would die, but it would not matter, the larger ship wouldn’t be able to kill enough of them with the crossbows to make a difference. He turned then to see his other nephew overtaking him again, and he grinned for a moment before he noticed a second crossbow volley crash into Rodrick’s ship. That was unusual, but if they had two crossbows ready, well then a second volley wasn’t impossible.

Then the third hit.

Then the fourth.

Then it was as if a literal rain of crossbow bolts was flying from the other ship into Rodrick’s ship, as they poured into it. He found himself grateful to his nephew for taking this insane fire as at least it was only focused on one ship so he and Maron could still move closer.

***

The crossbows that were bolted onto the ships rail worked with a team of two men. The first, and primary user, as Lord Baelish had called it, was the actual crossbow wielder, but instead of taking aim from his shoulder and depressing some sort of trigger to loose a bolt, the crossbow was instead tucked in under the right elbow to allow it to be aimed with some degree of accuracy. With the man’s off hand, he held a lever that moved it back to loose, and forward to simply re-cock the bow and loose another bolt as quickly as they could move it. It made a very distinct “click-clack” noise as it was operated, and while it wasn’t accurate or even capable of great range, it could send a lot of bolts down range quickly with lethal strength. The second man of the team had the job of simply making sure that the hopper on top of the bow remained topped up with bolts. And all the teams had been drilled time and again to make sure they could operate as a team as smoothly as possible. Just one alone would have been enough to wreck merry hell on a packed Ironborn longship, along the deck of the _Titan’s Sprint_ , Allard knew there was thirteen, all focused on the nearer Ironborn ship and blanketing it with bolts. The other Ironborn ship must have realised they could only really use the bolts from the side and started to angle towards the fore of the ship to avoid the withering hail that was starting to shift towards it, and as it did Allard watched the four man team up front wrestle their own weapons into position and felt both fear of the weapon, and pity for the Ironborn.

***

Maron had angled himself to avoid the bolts as they started to aim at him, Rodrick’s ship now listing aimlessly off to Victarion’s starboard. He wished his nephew well in the next life, he had died a warriors death to get his uncle and his brother closer, and Victarion swore vengeance on the men of this large ship as he got closer, but as he did, he saw something strange. It was a long pipe that had come to swing from the other ship, mounted on a bracket or somesuch no doubt, and as it aimed at Maron’s ship, he could see that at the end of the pipe there was some sort of metal grate, and inside it, something glowed.

***

Lord Baelish had said that the repeating crossbows he had would be useless on an offensive capacity. Oh they could put out a lot of bolts, but their short range and inaccuracy meant that they were a weapon that could only really be used in a static defence or on a ship.

“ _As such_ ” he had said “ _I don’t think King Stannis is going to have me flayed for them. No. It is the_ other _trick up my sleeve he will probably have me flayed for_.”

Everyone knew that Lord Baelish had hired some alchemists from King’s Landing to his own operations in Gulltown. Everyone knew that those alchemists worked on making soaps and other concoctions to sell to either noble ladies or gentlemen.

What very few people knew, was that they were also still making Wildfire. Or at least, something a lot like it. The first time Lord Baelish had shown it to Allard, he had nearly shit himself in terror. It had been even worse when Lord Baelish had scooped some out into his bare hands, and had it wiggle before him like some sort fat as opposed to a liquid. A runny fat, sure, but still not as much as water for example. It was still _very_ flammable, but as Lord Baelish had shown him by throwing it on the deck with full force, which had made him shit himself in terror, it was a _lot more_ stable, or at least so he said in comparison to “raw Wildfire”. He didn’t tell him how it was done, he said that was a secret that was known only to him and the handful of alchemists in his employ. But he had allowed Allard to see how it was easily pushed through a length of _very_ well stitched leather hose held by two strong men operating a pump. From there it would travel along the hose, one held by another two strong men to keep it steady, where it would reach the front where, in short bursts, another _very_ strong man would operate a lever to let some of it out to burn without going back down the hose and killing everyone. The crews trained with paint, and were trained to perfection before being allowed to even _touch_ the real stuff. And as the hose turned to bare on the Ironborn ship, he watched the flame go forward, and as it ignited on the way, it seemed to stick to everything on that ship. And as it went, the rushing flame made a roaring sound.

***

Victarion stared on in horror, and he knew he was not alone at doing that on his ship. It seemed even the crossbow bolts had stopped from the large enemy ship as he watched a blackish-green flame roar across Maron’s ship. He watched as it bathed his nephew’s ship in two brief roars, the flames sticking to every surface of the ship. He watched men jump into the sea in full armour, aflame, and saw in horror as they sunk, the fire _still burning_. What madman would use Wildfire like this? Not even the Targaryen’s would be so insane. He looked at the large ship then and saw quickly his opposite on that vessel. He was not a tall man, even if due to the difference in ship height he towered over Victarion. He had dark hair cut short, with a bit of length on the top, a black eyepatch with a glint of silver thread on it covered his left eye, his right eye was staring straight at Victarion. He wore a simple breastplate, unadorned, and had a slightly curved sword unsheathed and held flat over a shoulder, the flames of his nephews funeral pyre glinting off the blade and breastplate. Then the other man did something Victarion didn’t expect, he held his sword up in salute to him, and smiled.

Victarion wanted nothing more than to wipe that smile off that bastard’s face. To crack his skull open on his deck and stop his head into a bloody stain. But then he saw the long pipe like thing turn to face his ship, and all he could do was hurl the darkest curse he could at this man.

‘ _In the next world, I will end you.’_

And then there was a wall of green flame washing over him, and he felt nothing ever again.

***

The third Ironborn ship was aflame, and as it came closer Allard hoped that Baelish was correct in that the vinegar soaked hides along the _Titan's Sprint_ would prevent it from spreading. He turned to look at Lord Baelish who was returning his sword to rest on his shoulder as he turned to look at the crew.

"Fine work lads. Damn fine work. Now lets go shut the back door on these bastards and make sure none of them run from the rest of the fleet!"


	35. Chapter 33

**Chapter 33**

**Petyr XXIII**

Petyr had survived his first naval battle. He didn’t delude himself into thinking it would be his last one, he wouldn’t be so lucky, but he had survived the first one, and in general it had been a slaughter, of the “other poor bastard” variety. The main melee of the fight had been down to the combined Royal and Redwyne fleets under Paxtor’s command, and Petyr had had no intention of being involved in that portion of the fight, he and his Runners had been used to encircle and flank. It was the sort of job that could prove to be particularly dangerous, and the Kraken pennant flying ships had proven how so as Petyr found his own ship focused by what, according to Captain Delver after the fight, were three ships under the command of members of House Greyjoy, in the opening moves of the battle. Petyr didn’t know which particular ones, nor did he care, one of the ships had fallen to crossbow fire, the other two to _actual_ fire as Petyr’s not-quite napalm worked almost exactly as he had wanted.

The performance had been repeated by all of Petyr’s ships as they came in towards the rear of the Greyjoy formation and wrecked merry hell before some of those ships managed to escape, and even as people had started to cheer in victory, Petyr was already trying to learn from the experience. It took a couple of hours to get all of his captains together and find out what they had to say, and the picture they painted felt like it mirrored Petyr’s own. The crossbows that had been _lethal_ against lightly armoured pirates in the Narrow Sea had proven much more ineffective against the heavily armed Ironborn. Luckily, the Ironborn manning the oars had _not_ been armoured too heavily and the weapons had proven effective against them, as well as the freak shots through holes in armour into exposed places, such as eyes and mouths. One thing was certain though, they would need a stronger throwing weight to make them more effective, luckily they worked to test the concept of crew-manned weapons, so expanding them shouldn’t be difficult, but they would still need to be taken back to the drawing board.

As for the flamethrowers, well, they had performed terrifyingly well. He couldn’t prove anything, but he was certain that after the first dozen or so ships had gone up in blackish-green sticky fire that the other Ironborn ships had just started to run as he got within range. The vinegar soaked leather had kept his own ships safe, a trick he’d tested with the alchemists who had made his concoction in the first place. The problem now was of course those same alchemists were going to be looking for _another_ raise, and after all the cajoling it had taken to get them to make him the stocks he had, it promised to be expensive. He could afford it though, just like he was going to have to pay for some _serious_ improvements in the quality of his hoses, as one of them had split on _The Flying Reachman_ and had come perilously close to sending that whole ship up in flame. Luckily that was after the battle and the contents hadn’t been too highly under pressure or near a flame, but it had still taken a couple of hours of action before her captain felt safe about the matter, and the man had positively reeked of vinegar when he arrived. Davos had gone as pale as a sheet after Petyr had filled him in on that little detail, and Lord Paxtor had not seemed to view it with joy either as the possibility of it going wrong hit him as well. That was a good thing for Petyr, as hopefully it would kill any ideas of theirs for a wider adaption of the flamethrowers for a while. He didn’t need the competition just yet, and he was certain that Stannis was going to have _Opinions_ on the weapon once Davos made his report.

But even after all the ships had been captured, the few prisoners adequately secured, and wounds tended to, the Royal fleet had carried on to Ryamsport for rest, repair and revelry. The latter part hit hard and to Petyr it was a scene of nothing but ecstasy and a raucous celebration of survival, as the various sailors of the combined Royal and Redwyne fleets took ample advantage of the stores of the largest wine-producing part of Westeros being open to them. To a point, of course, no-one down there was getting their hands on the really good stuff, at least not for the cut-throat price that Lord Paxtor had given the instructions to offer. Truth be told Petyr was not particularly looking forward to having to deal with them all in the morning, as getting the crews back aboard ship and pointed vaguely towards Casterly Rock so that they could get on with the rest of their mission was, in a not particularly fine way, going to suck. But well, for now, the men could get drunk, celebrate being alive, and payback Paxtor tenfold from the money that was likely flying into the other Lord’s coffers through the doubtless roaring trade that the brothels were up to. Lord Paxtor may not own them, but that did not mean he was blind to the revenue stream that they provided, which put him in the “smart enough to actually balance his books” category of Westerosi nobles. A narrow category if Petyr’s own experiences were anything to judge by.

Of course, Petyr would rather be down among his own crews celebrating. Well, that wasn’t totally accurate, he’d prefer to be at home, curled up in bed with a blanket over him rocking himself in comfort while having the total nervous breakdown that he could feel coming at the death and destruction he had caused, and the sheer pointlessness of existence coupled with a desire to just _die_ again. But he would have settled for getting blindly drunk with the men who he had dragged halfway across the world and nearly gotten killed, instead of the more formal setting he found himself in. He had hoped to at least be polite, aloof, and generally use Davos as his human shield as he was very much _not_ in the mood for a courtly affair. But the treacherous Onion Knight had found an acceptable excuse to not attend and for that he would be the first against the wall when the revolution came. Instead he was at the tender mercies of Lady Mina Redwyne neé Tyrell who was, if anything, even sharper than her husband and not letting the unmarried, relatively young, nobleman escape without at least _trying_ to throw a young woman or two at him. An experience he was finding more and more tiring as the night wore on, thankfully though the woman’s only daughter was still too young for such an approach so it was more in the way of unmarried Redwyne cousins than anything too serious.

“ _Oh I’m certain Lord Baelish”_ she had said in her most recent volley “ _would_ hardly _be lacking the attendance of any particular member of the fairer sex in his bed tonight._ ”

“ _That may be the case my lady, but the only member of the fairer sex I’d wish to spend company with is, hopefully, safely asleep in her own bed at home. Either that, or my daughter is doubtless raiding the pantry and asking for a miserable punishment in turn._ ”

He had smiled, gotten some polite but awkward smiles in return, and once again the subject of his daughter served as a great defence from attempts to ensnare him through the bedroom. It wasn’t a perfect one, but as far as his available arsenal went, it was the first solid trench line he had before the fortress walls further inside. The two _other_ single parents he at least had a correspondence with understood that too, but they were also both lucky in that they had brothers that were not in the mood to marry off their sisters for political gain, mostly because both of the brothers wished to have peaceful lives. There was, also, a fair amount of truth in it as well. He would rather be at home, listening to Pol tell him about her day and otherwise enjoying the happy life he had carved out for himself, but instead he had been dragged out to war. Next time he’d need to be better prepared, whether that meant answering the summons or fleeing to the Summer Isles would be up for debate, but he would need to be ready. There would be a next time, he knew it. The only way Stannis Baratheon would never again call on him would require Petyr to have _horribly_ mismanaged the whole affair so far, and he couldn’t do that, not while it would have been _his_ people paying the price. If only they could have gotten the whole damned bag of Ironborn in the battle, then he would have been able to make an excuse and slink home early, bring his crews with him, and rely on correspondence for how the rest of the madness turned out. But a big enough part had managed to get away that when the invasion of the Iron Isles happened, he and his ships would still be needed in case of a sortie.

This would mean another naval battle, and worse, one where the enemy knew what was coming. He hated not having a few surprises ready.

A meaty slap on his shoulder also reminded him that he hated _actual_ surprises too, and he turned to look at the smiling, moustached, face of Lord Tommen Costayne.

“Lord Petyr” the oddly high-pitched man spoke, sounding only _slightly_ drunk as he did so, “the man who sent the Ironborn _burning_ to their Drowned God. By the Seven my Lord, but that was some dangerous stuff.”

“Thank you Lord Tommen, I do try.”

“Try? You didn’t try, you bloody succeeded. What in the hells do you call that stuff anyway? Wildfire it is not, not if it is tamed like that.”

“I haven’t actually named it anything. It just is what it is, and thankfully it works.”

Costayne’s face took on a contemplative expression then, or he could have just been constipated, and then he looked at Petyr and smiled even wider.

“If you haven’t a name then, I think I do. Call it whatever you wish my lord, but I dare say I’ll be calling it Baelfire for a long time yet!”

Petyr heard the name and bit back a quick response that involved words like _Aes Sedai, Tar Valon_ and _Aiel_ , instead he used his drink to cover his expression as he tried to hide his humour at the name.

“You honour me greatly Lord Tommen” he said instead, once he was sure he could trust his own voice, “though I must admit no great love at sticking my name on it.”

“Bah, does not a skilled smith leave his mark on his creations? Do it my lord, best the world know who created it than simply letting it go unremarked.”

Petyr smiled at the comment and managed not to sigh with relief as the other lord moved away from him then to engage someone else in conversation. The relief was short lived as he noticed the gaggle of women that denoted Lady Redwyne coming past for another salvo, and Gods save him, she was directly speaking to some poor young woman with red hair whose gaze kept darting from her to him. He could _almost_ respect Lady Redwyne’s commitment to trying to play the Habsburg game of “marry everyone to win”, but he couldn’t wait to be on the way to Casterly Rock. Ironborn or not, at least he could be armed when dealing with them.

*******

It didn’t take too long before he was informed where his wayward assistant had wound up the night before, and while Petyr was, fundamentally, an evil _evil_ man, he decided against his initial desire to send the boy’s father to go collect him. Instead he had turned up at the house of quite-good repute, stopping only long enough to pick up a pitcher of cold water and make a couple of arrangements, and was shown into the room where, somewhere in the mess of limbs, Allard and two women resided for the moment. One of the women had come awake as he had entered, and was slowly removing herself from the situation while waking her fellow lady of negotiable affection. Petyr just gave her what he hoped was a polite smile, and not a malicious one, and fished in his left pocket to pass her a small purse. She took it with a slight bow, and both naked women were soon out of the room leaving Petyr standing over the still snoring Allard, he briefly thought about just probing him with a foot to wake up, but instead discarded the thought and poured the pitcher of water over him.

The reaction was about what Petyr had expected, Allard had scrambled, twisting over himself and getting caught up in blankets, before tumbling out of the bed onto the floor, cursing the entire time with the variety that only someone in his profession could. Eventually he managed to straighten himself up enough to look out over the bed towards Petyr, and then seeing who it had been, the anger in his eyes only seemed to get more sullen. Petyr didn’t care, he could live with Allard being angry at him in a mopey teenage way for a while yet. Instead Petyr looked around, spied a simple stool, and sat down upon it.

“If I wanted to annoy you _properly_ I’d have poured stale beer on you and your company.”

Allard continued to stare daggers at him, but Petyr just levelled him with a gaze that he hoped conveyed the humour he felt in as annoying a way as possible. All the better to get some joy out of his subordinates discomfort.

“Also two women? I don’t know if old Kind King Robert would have been impressed or disappointed that you _only_ settled for two. I’m regretting not asking your father along now, would have been great to get his read on the situation.”

Allard at least had the decency to look mildly embarrassed at the mention of his father, and finally spoke back.

“Why are you here my lord?”

“Well I have the shore party out rounding people up. We need to be underway by mid-day on the way up to Casterly Rock, and it was either _I_ could come here and get you, or let Captain Delver send some men in to haul you out bodily, and I try not to offend the various brothels around the world. Well, the ones that aren’t total flea traps that is. Again, you are rising in my books for not settling on the cheapest place by the docks by the way.”

Petyr then stretched back on the stool and felt a satisfying pop before he spoke again.

“Now though, I would advise you to get your arse in gear, and be downstairs quickly as I have arranged for breakfast. After that, we have a journey ahead of us, and while the more dangerous part of it is over for now, you are not off the hook yet as far as serving under me on that ship.”

Allard clearly started looking around the room for clothes then and Petyr stood up then and made his way to the door, and then spoke again before stepping through it.

“Oh, and I would imagine that the bill needs to be settled as well. I _do_ hope you have the money on hand Allard, otherwise I’m sure there is some menial labour you can do to pay it off.”

He got through the door before the sound of a thrown boot was heard impacting it from the other side. For most nobles in Westeros, that would have been a _very_ stupid thing to do, for Petyr it was simply proof that his barbs were landing, and that made the tiny shrivelled husk that was his sadistic heart, happy. He whistled tunelessly as he made his way down the stairs for breakfast, the madam of this particular establishment had promised a “Wolf’s Wedge” breakfast, and Petyr couldn’t wait to tell Ned about how _that_ name was now attached to the idea of a bacon sandwich, with extras, even here in an Arbor bordello.

*******

The journey to Lannister lair was, thankfully, quiet. Which Petyr both was thankful for and regretted. Thankful, as it meant he didn’t need to worry about dying any time soon, regretful in that it meant he was able to fixate his entire attention to the fact that the Rock of Gibraltar, or what might as well be it, was currently jutting out of a bay that, if one ignored the buildings, bore a not unfamiliar resemblance to Dublin. There were times that the world-building approach of “take Ireland, do like Vanilla Ice by flipping and reversing it, make it bigger and add some bits” manifested itself in ways he couldn’t help but notice, and be irritated by.

His own grumblings aside, the fleet had arrived, been positioned as best as possible, which considering the wholesale destruction of the Lannisport wharf-front and the hurried repair work that was evident , was actually pretty damned good, and he had disembarked with Allard in tow as he caught up with Lord Paxtor and Davos. They were escorted not by the red cloaked arms men of House Lannister, though they did pass parties of such either patrolling the city or helping out on repair work, instead they were escorted by men in rough-spun brown cloaks, identifying them as members of the Royal Army, and making it _very_ clear who all three men, and one hanger on, were on their way to meet, which meant that the various groups that they came across on the way got out of the way of the party with a minimal amount of fuss.

They were shown to just outside where Stannis was holding office at the moment, an office that had probably belonged to Tywin and Jaime if Petyr had to guess, and Allard was politely, but firmly, asked to remain outside as the three went in. Within Petyr found roughly what he was expecting, a veritable who’s who of the forces being brought against the Ironborn. From the Reach, Mace Tyrell and Randyll Tarly were sitting down at a table, though Randyll was turning from a conversation he was having with Oberyn Martell. The Viper gave the group a polite nod with a slight smile at the sight of them, and Petyr began running through his own plans to keep as much distance from the Viper as possible. Of the Westerlands, Tywin and Jaime Lannister were sat, joined by another pair of Lannister’s Petyr didn’t know, and while Tywin regarded the newcomers with a cold look, Jaime at least gave a smile that seemed out of place on his tired face.

John Arryn stood beside Stannis, pointing at a map before the trio had walked in, and his face positively lit up as he looked at them. The Vale force had not yet arrived at the mustering point, as Petyr had gathered from a few quick questions asked on the way, but that wouldn’t have stopped his liege lord from making sure he was with the army, at least this far. Stannis himself simply looked up from the map at the three men, nodded curtly, and returned to what he was saying, meaning Petyr could take a couple moments rest before he knew they would need to brief the King on what was going on. That allowed him to drift his gaze over to the final member of the little war council, a man that was giving him a level stare that wasn’t angry, but hardly friendly.

Barriston Selmy. The former Kingsguard, was watching him, and if Petyr had to guess, the older man was busy deciding if killing him or letting him live would cause him more issues. Petyr didn’t know what he had done to deserve that from a man he had only met twice before, but the gaze remained. He wore the colours of House Selmy, and if his presence here was surprising to Petyr initially, it made sense the more he thought the man would have come with the Stormlander contingent anyway, and Stannis being Stannis, he wouldn’t leave a capable man sitting on his hands.

“My Lords” came Stannis’s voice as he stood to regard Petyr and the others “and Ser Davos. We were glad to hear of your victory over the Ironborn, and We have questions for you Lord Baelish with regards to rumours that you are using Wildfire on your ships.”

The last part was accompanied by Petyr briefly becoming the focus of attention for the room, and he decided to keep his mouth firmly shut.

“However, the Ironborn are still a threat, and will be until We have cleared every hall on Pyke. As such I need to know if your ships can be ready to transport Our forces within a week?”

Davos looked at Paxtor, and Paxtor looked at him, and Petyr, realising he had no one he could turn to, gulped and spoke. He may have expected that question, but he had thought one of the others would have answered it first.

“Well Your Grace, given a week it should be a trivial matter to get your forces aboard ships and to forge a beach head, but it will likely take a couple of trips to get everyone across. Losses at the hands of the Ironborn mean our ability to ferry men and equipment are slightly less than I would have liked for such an operation. And we would also need to account for the Ironborn trying to disrupt proceedings with the naval vessels they have left.”

He resisted the urge to kick himself after using the term “operation” as it was not one that people were particularly familiar with, with the exception of _some_ Maester’s. But he carried on regardless.

“I’m also guessing that we are to expect the North, Riverlands and Vale armies within the next week then?”

Stannis gave him a curt nod and then turned back to the map on the desk before him. Petyr just took the King’s brisk change in attention in stride, he had fulfilled his purpose of telling Stannis what he needed to hear, and while he wasn’t exactly dismissed, he was no longer necessary for Stannis to pay his full attention to. It was enough for Petyr to think that Stannis was somewhere on the Autism spectrum, if only because like recognised like in that regard.

He instead turned to look for a seat, and found the nearest ones to either be beside Oberyn or Mace, and was saved from those two choices when John Arryn appeared before him, placed an arm around his shoulder with a smile, and politely directed him towards another part of the room.

“Petyr, I must congratulate you on what you managed” he began as they stepped away from the rest of the group “a naval victory to add to your achievements, I would be asking if there is anything you couldn’t achieve, like, for example, taming wildfire. But you have clearly done that too. An achievement, certainly, but one I was not informed of?”

John Arryn managed to ask it with a smile on his face but it wasn’t one of warmth, it was like a shark that had happened upon a tasty meal and Petyr felt the hand of the other man tighten _just_ slightly on his shoulder. That Petyr could over-power the older man wouldn’t be the issue, it would be the after effects and so Petyr was forced to look his liege-lord in the eye and take a moment to compose his thoughts.

“Well my Lord, you see, it’s like this….”

*******

The Riverland and Northern armies arrived the following day, an army who’s leadership gave Petyr equal cause for celebration and annoyance. On the one hand, Ned was in charge of the Northern Army, and Petyr was delighted to see his friend for the first time in years, he was equally delighted to see Benjen, and only slightly confused at his introduction to Dacey Stark neé Mormont who had shown up equipped and ready for war, and with the full intention of following her husband. That was only a _minor_ surprise in comparison to seeing Sandor Clegane as part of Howland Reed’s troops, and instead of the foul tempered scouring teenager he had met before, he saw a young man that still clearly possessed a great deal of anger, but was dangerously still about it. He didn’t want to think _how_ Howland had done that, but he suddenly had a feeling that _this_ Clegane was a lot more dangerous than the Hound of another time had been at this age.

The main source of his annoyance, came in the form of the never sufficiently damned Edmure Tully, who had shown up at the head of the Riverland army. At least until the Blackfish arrived with the Vale forces. The other man had grown up, only in the sense that he was taller, and while he didn’t straight away point out Petyr’s missing eye and attempt to heap misery on him for his method of earning his living, it was clearly lurking behind the little shits eyes. That Petyr’s hand started to itch for his sword within a few moments in his presence was the sort of thing that needed to be handled. He did it by politely, and skilfully, excusing himself and instead claiming he had work to do aboard his ships. That had worked on any summons short of Stannis and John Arryn, and outside of a brief meal with the Starks, he had stuck to it. Politeness be damned.

After two days such a summons arrived, and so he found himself watching the force coming towards the general mustering grounds of the various armies, a grounds that he noted with some pride bore a _strong_ resemblance to the camps he had gotten the Northern and Rebel armies to set up the last time he had been to war, and as it approached he tried not to appear too eager beside John Arryn. The Vale army had finally arrived, with Petyr and John being the only two Vale lords in the area, they were escorting Stannis to great them. The King only vaguely resembled an annoyed mule, so was doubtless in a good mood, and was accompanied by Davos who looked very out of place on the back of a horse but had been reabsorbed back into Stannis retinue with no issue. As the army came closer though, the noise from it started to change from just the sound of an army on the move to something else, and after a few seconds Petyr recognized it, and did his best to not collapse into his hands at embarrassment at his past self in a drunken state.

“’ _Oh come tell me John of Pebble, why do you hurry so?’_

_‘Hush boy and listen’ and his cheeks were all a glow._

_‘I bare orders from the Captain, get you ready quick and soon._

_For the ranks must be together at the calling of the Moon._

_At the calling of the Moon my boys, at the calling of the Moon,_

_For the ranks must be together at the calling of the Moon.”_

Stannis turned in his saddle to John Arryn as he heard the song, and Arryn just gave a slight smile and a shrug.

“ _’Oh come tell me John of Pebble, where the gathering is to be?’_

_‘At the old spot by the river, quite well known to you and me._

_One more word for signal token, whistle out the marching tune,_

_With your spear upon your shoulder at the calling of the Moon_

_At the calling of the Moon my boys, at the calling of the Moon,_

_With your spear upon your shoulder at the calling of the Moon.”_

The words were getting clearer as the army came closer, and at its head under the banner of House Arryn, rode Denys Arryn, his mouth clearly moving to lend a voice to the song.

“ _Out from many a mud walled cabin eyes were watching through the night_

_Many a manly heart was beating for the blessed morning's light_

_Murmurs ran along the valley to the Falcon's lonely croon_

_And a thousand spears were flashing at the calling of the Moon_

_At the calling of the Moon my boys, at the calling of the Moon,_

_And a thousand spears were flashing at the calling of the Moon._ ”

The royal and noble party started forward then to meet up with the army, and Petyr was forced to try and remain dignified and aloof as the borrowed horse under him trotted along, bringing him ever closer.

“ _All along that singing river, that black mass of men was seen_

_High above their shining weapons flew their loyal Arryn blue_

_‘Death to every foe and traitor’, whistle out the marching tune!_

_And hoorah me boys for Arryn for the Falcon and the Moon_

_For the Falcon and the Moon, for the Falcon and the Moon_

_And hoorah me boys for Arryn, for the Falcon and the Moon._ ”

The song ended as Petyr finished thinking a hurried pleading prayer of apology to Luke Kelly and the spirits of any other Irish traditional musicians that might be lurking around at his bastardisation of a Republican marching song into an Arryn anthem. He hadn’t even remembered doing it, but clearly he had at some point, and he put it down to the black hole period in his memories that involved alcohol, King’s Landing and before Varys took an unfortunate tumble off the side of a battlement.

“Your Grace, Uncle, may I present the Vale army? Apologies on our tardiness but the roads were not the best.”

“Ser Denys, you are well met. I would offer you some form of polite meal and celebration at your arrival, but alas plans need to get in motion so if you would be so kind as to get your men settled in and attend me at your earliest convenience.”

Stannis didn’t make it a request, it was an order, and actually a polite one by his standards. He also wasn’t using the Royal “We”, as Petyr had found he only did that in situations like a war planning room. Instead the King turned to John Arryn and spoke again.

“I will also allow you time to talk with your Uncle, but again, I expect to see you at the war council soon.”

With that he turned, Davos in tow, and rode back towards Casterly Rock. Petyr didn’t follow, nor did he butt into the conversation between Arryns that had broken out, he instead let his gaze drift until he saw the man he was looking for, and plastered a big smile on his face that was somewhat genuine.

“Gods Blackfish, but you look like shit.”

Brynden Tully did look like shit, or at least shit covered, and the look he gave Petyr would have probably stunned a lesser man.

“My horse threw a shoe on the road, there was a puddle. Happy Mockingbird?”

Petyr had fallen in beside the other man as they rode on, and after explaining why he was covered in mud, he had turned to stare directly in front of him.

“Ecstatic, if you must know. Why if we make all that mud look fresh we might be able to make you look like your namesake.”

Petyr felt his grin grow wilder, and only winced slightly at the not-quite a punch he got in his ribs for the comment.

“No fair, you are in armour.”

“Mockingbird, when have I ever been dumb enough to seek a fair fight?”

“Never. Still probably the best lesson you taught me.”

“Perhaps, but you stupidly took it the wrong way and still got yourself split up the middle over it didn’t you?”

“Yup. Now a days I’d just ambush the son of a bitch with a crossbow or ten from an elevated position and pour baelfire down on him.”

Brynden turned his head at that and gave him a quizzical look.

“Pour _what_ down on him?”

“Baelfire. It’s the hot new thing. I’ve only had my liege lord and His Grace both give me shit over using wildfire on a ship.”

Brynden’s eyes seemed to bug out of his sockets at that as he stared at him even harder, his voice coming out as a choked whisper.

“You did _what_?”

“I decided to cheat Brynden, and it worked out quite well.”

He filled his not-quite a father figure in on the events of the Royal Fleet’s trip around Westeros, leaving out a few details, and was still talking to him by the time they had reached the mustering ground, and the Blackfish had gotten set up.

“So did he have the money to settle the bill?”

“Oh _God’s_ no. Allard couldn’t afford that particular place’s prices, but I had handled it before I dumped the water on him. A good sum to the women too.”

The Blackfish stared at him for a moment and then spoke.

“You wanted him indebted to you?”

“No, I wanted him to celebrate being alive, and to have the sort of fun that a young man should in that situation. That it means he is more tightly tied to me is a happy after-thought.”

“There are times I think that if Stark had just killed you, the world would be spared a very dangerous mind.”

“Ah, but if Stark hadn’t knocked some sense into me, it wouldn’t be a dangerous mind at all. Besides, what would your nieces have said?”

“They would have cried. And probably given Edmure shit for dancing and laughing. Speaking of my nephew, he’s already here correct?”

“Yup. You’ll see him at the War Council probably.”

“Good. I don’t suppose I need to oversee any duels between you two?”

“Of course not. No duels.”

Petyr smiled as he responded, letting the implication hang in the air.

“I do like you Petyr, but if he winds up with ten crossbow bolts in him and on fire, there will be trouble between us.”

Thus proving Brynden had caught the implication, and Petyr threw his hands up in surrender.

“I know, I know. I have no intention of seeking a fight with him. But if he comes after me for one, I will defend myself.”

“So long as he’s still breathing at the end of it, I can live with it Petyr. Now if you’ll excuse me, I do have to try and look mildly presentable before I go before the King.”

“Fair enough, I’ll see you there. I’m stuck ferrying you bunch across and my suggestion that the Riverlands forces make like your sigil and swim wasn’t met with much joy.”

Petyr ducked out of the tent before he could get a response to that, and made his way to his borrowed horse for the ride back.

*******

He wasn’t far into the Rock before he was ambushed. One moment he was walking by himself, and the next he had Jaime Lannister and the other older Lannister who had been introduced to him as “Gerion” flanking him with Jaime placing a polite arm inside his own and leading him into a different hallway.

“Say nothing, act casual. My Father has eyes everywhere.”

The whispered explanation gave Petyr enough pause to keep his mouth shut and not fight back at the suddenness, instead he fell into step between the two Lannisters and after what felt like a few minutes of walking they were in a somewhat dusty room illuminated by only a single candle.

“Ok, what the fuck is going on?”

Petyr looked from between the two men, and while Jaime gave him an apologetic look, the older Lannister placed a scroll on the sole cleared table in the room.

“Sorry for the means Petyr, but we needed you somewhere that my Father isn’t liable to easily hear about.”

“I got that Jaime, but why?”

“They have my brother.”

Petyr nodded slowly at that. He had known this to be the working hypothesis, simply because no sign of Tyrion Lannister had shown up yet, and it was either he was captured, or his body would never be found, and considering the evident grief on Jaime’s voice when he said that, Petyr decided that playing to the hope he was still alive was probably better than a harsh rebuke right now.

“Uncle Gerion has been to Pyke before” Jaime said, waving his hand to the scroll that had become a hasty map “and he is pretty certain he knows where he would be held. We are thinking that the both of us, yourself, and a couple of-“

“Let me stop you right there.” Petyr tried to sound as neutral as he could, but still forceful. “You are proposing that the both of you, with I’m guessing the help of one of my ships, sail to Pyke, in the hope of springing your brother out from a jail cell?”

“Well, yes.” Came Jaime’s reply. “Uncle Gerion’s map is pretty accurate, as he drew it when he was there only three years ago, so we know where the cells are.”

“Ok. And you know _which_ cell Tyrion is in? How to get in and out of that cell? That he is even in a _cell_ at all and not being kept somewhere else?”

“Well we do-“

“And even _if_ and that is a big fucking “if”, you two, and Ser Twenty of House Goodmen managed to get in there undetected, grab him, and get out. A situation I regard as having the same chance as a snowball in a Dornish summer, what then? Do you expect me to fight off the entire remnants of the Ironborn fleet? A fleet that is more than likely anchored near Pyke? No Jaime. There is no way that you could get there undetected, even Ser Davos wouldn’t be able to do that. Once you are in that area, you would be dealing with Every. Single. Ironborn. On that miserable pile of rocks being armed and waiting for you. At best, instead of one Lannister, they get three prisoners.”

There was an angry tension to the room as Petyr finished. He couldn’t give Jaime the false hope that something like this would work. Hell, short of the SAS deciding to pop by for a visit, he couldn’t think of _anyone_ who could make this work.

“They have my brother Petyr.”

Was the response that finally came.

“And we will get him back Jaime. But it won’t be by you and your Uncle running off on a hare-brained scheme that only works in the stories.”

“Says the man who infiltrated the Red Keep during Robert’s Rebellion.”

“That was luck Jaime. A whole _lot_ of luck. Even then I knew exactly where the person I needed to save was, and I took a big gamble in keeping her safe. Hell, if _you_ hadn’t been there, Howland would have been fighting off Gregor Clegane and his band as a whole, and while Lord Reed is a very dangerous man, he isn’t that dangerous.”

Jaime stared at him hard then, but Petyr returned it as best he could, until Jaime looked away and his head sunk.

“It’s my damned fault they got him in the first place. If I had only known, I could have done so much more.”

“History is full of “if only’s” Jaime. We can’t spend all our time sitting around wondering about them. The only thing we can do is learn from them and move on. You want your brother back? I give you my word I’ll do everything I can to get him back Jaime. But this is not the way, the way is whatever the King tells us when we go to that War Council meeting. One which I’m sure our absence is being remarked about as we speak.”

“He’s right Jaime” Gerion said, speaking for the first time in this whole conversation “I may have fed you a false hope, I’m sorry.”

“It is fine Uncle, I know you did it out of a concern for Tyrion. For now I suppose all I can do is pray he is well.”

“Pray he is well Nephew, and slaughter any fool Ironborn dumb enough to stand between us.”

The older man said it with a hostility and anger that took Petyr by surprise, but he quickly got over it, a Lannister, after all, is a Lannister, and there was a reason why Tywin headed up Petyr’s “Do not fuck with” list at the moment.

“Well then, shall we go to the meeting before His Grace, or worse, your father sends someone looking for us?”

“Yes, that is probably a very good idea."


	36. Chapter 34

**Chapter 34**

**Various V**

The conditions of his imprisonment had not improved that much since he was moved from a ship to a dark, damp cell. Well, that might not be entirely true if he thought about it. The cell was damp by virtue of having the ocean surge against it day and night, not enough to drown out the room, but enough to make any rest difficult. However it was a damn sight bigger than an oversized birdcage, and he actually, occasionally, got something approaching food and brackish water here whereas the sea voyage had consisted of air with a side of sea mist as far as sustenance was concerned. The social aspect still left a lot to be desired, surrounded as he was by a whole series of blood thirsty monsters whose very presence was enough to scare him, even if he would be damned if he would let them know that. The exception had been the two children, a boy and girl, who had come to stare at him in curiosity one of the days. Thankfully they did not ask him to put on a mummer’s show, as he was hardly in his motley best or properly equipped to do so. They had been gathered up by their mother, who he had recognised, and Lady Alannys hadn’t bothered to give him more than a brief glance. Considering her husband’s reaction to Tyrion’s arrival at their court, he was hardly surprised.

_“You brought us the Dwarf?” Balon didn’t scream, didn’t yell, he just spoke with an angry intensity that echoed the silent halls. It almost reminded Tyrion of his own father really._

_“No brother, I brought you a son of Tywin Lannister as a captive, along with the rest of what we took from Lannisport.” Euron Greyjoy said it with a tone that almost sounded mocking. “So, you are welcome.”_

_“You forget your place brother.”_

_“Apologies Your Grace, but still, there is a reason why the little lion is here.”_

_“That is?”_

_“Well, Tywin Lannister is nothing if not protective of his family, and with one of his own sons here, he may be more rash in his approach, and his rashness will leave him open to mistakes, mistakes we can take advantage of.”_

_Tyrion had to stifle a laugh, the idea that his father would act in any way to save him was ridiculous, if they had captured Kevan instead of him, they would stand a chance of that working._

_“And that_ display _of the dead in Lannisport? That was part of this plan then Euron?”_

 _Tyrion was watching the face of the man who had captured him, and at the mention of what he had done in Lannisport, of the atrocity and butchery, he saw_ something _in the man’s face. For a moment, just a brief moment, he saw something like panic behind the man’s eyes._

_“Of course my King” he said, bowing slightly “for what better way to taunt the Lannister than to make his failure all the more apparent?”_

_“Well you could have left a letter.”_

_As soon as the words had slipped out, Tyrion wanted them back. He knew what these monsters could do to him, they had done it before him to his own blood, but he had said it, and surviving the effects of doing it would require him to use the only weapon he had._

_“Your Grace” he said to Balon then, bowing slightly as he could in his bonds “my Father’s own actions would be guaranteed if all that had been done was simply a raid to steal a single honeycomb, never mind what was done. Yes this is war, and yes barbarity happens within it, but this will no more hasten my Father’s actions than simply cause them to be more wide reaching.”_

_“Silence.” He heard Euron bellow and he felt the blow instead of seeing it that knocked him to the ground. “If we wanted you to speak we would ask you.” More blows followed then, and Tyrion did all he could to shield his head with his arms until blessedly they stopped, and he absently realised it was after Balon had called for them to stop._

_“Take the Dwarf, throw him in one of the sea cells until we have a better use for him. Euron, I want you to go meet with Victarion, he is planning our next moves and your actions aside, the two of you will be able to tweak the Greenlanders noses better than anyone.”_

His recollections came to a halt as he heard the screeching noise of the door into where his cell was kept being opened. If his gaoler was here to give him some meagre nourishment, it was at an unusual time. Instead when the door opened, the oaf of a man who guarded him wasn’t there, instead there stood three armed men, one who carried shackles in his hands.

“Are we going to have to hold you down Dwarf, or will you make this easy?” The one with the shackles growled, and Tyrion debated the merits of saying something clever, but instead simply stood and presented his arms as meekly as he could.

If the armed men appreciated it, they kept it to themselves, instead the most he got out of them was a grunt as the shackles were placed on him and he was led back from his cell, in the direction of the hall where he had first been presented. He tried to keep his thoughts calm, but he felt he couldn’t resist the urge to hope that some sort of salvation had come, that maybe a peace had been negotiated? His enthusiasm died the moment he sensed the mood in the hall, and it took all he could manage not to try and run.

“Tyrion Lannister” Balon said as he entered “tell me, when my brothers and sons visited upon Lannisport, what stands out at you the most?”

The so called King didn’t even look at Tyrion, he was instead staring intently at a weary and very clearly tired Euron.

“Your Grace?”

“Answer the question boy, and I won’t order it beaten out of you. Of all the things that happened, what do you remember the most?”

He did not want to think too hard on the matter, but he also did not need to work to recollect it.

“The torture of my uncle Your Grace. He had tried to hide me, to make me safe from all that came afterwards and I watched what was done to him, was _made_ to watch by Lord Euron.”

“I see. Do you think, or all the things that has happened, that your uncle’s death would be the thing most likely to irritate your father?”

Tyrion looked between the two Greyjoys, neither had so much as turned to him and his mind raced as he tried to figure out what was going on in this room, he knew if he answered wrong he could be dead in moments.

“Well?” Balon half shouted.

“Yes Your Grace. The last time my Father would have been so irritated, it was with the members of House’s Reyne and Tarbeck.”

“I see.” Again Balon didn’t even look at him, instead though he rose and continued to stare at his brother.

“AND YOU” he yelled at Euron “HAVE GIVEN HIM NOT SIMPLY A REASON TO COME, BUT LOST ME THE DAMNED SHIPS I WOULD NEED TO KEEP HIM AT BAY! YOU AND YOUR _PLAN_ TO LOOT LANNISPORT FOR ALL ITS WORTH.”

“VICTARION LOST YOU YOUR SHIPS. VICTARION LOST YOU YOUR SONS.”

“AND WHERE ARE THEY NOW? MY SONS AND VICTARION?”

Euron simply stared in response, his mouth kept firmly shut.

“Answer me Euron. Where. Are. They. Now?”

Each word was accompanied by a jab from Balon to his brother’s chest.

“Dead Balon. They are dead. I watched them die screaming and on fire as they went to the depths. But tell me, how was I to know that some pissant Greenlander would be so insane as to bring wildfire on his own ships? As it is that I got any of them back is a blessing of the Drowned One himself.”

There was a slight tone of panic to Euron’s voice as he had spoken, slightly pleading even, as he held his ground. Tyrion however didn’t bother paying much attention to that, if the Ironborn fleet had been beaten, then that meant he might yet survive this, but who in the name of the Gods would be stupid enough to bring wildfire on a ship?

“Then tell me Euron, which man killed my sons and brother? What man may I make my plans to kill in the ways of our ancestors?”

“I do not know. His ships were different, bigger and almost like those of the Summer Isles. They carried no banners, only carried a pennant and flew a flag, red and white squares opposite each other.”

“Lannister” Balon said, turning then “is there any Greenlander house with such colours?”

“Red and white? Several, but none in that particular description Your Grace, but if I may, you say the ships looked like Summer Isles ones?”

He knew he was walking on dangerous grounds, but the hope that had started to come to life in him again was making him bold, and he had his suspicions from the description of the ships. Balon turned back from Tyrion and stared at his brother again.

“Answer the question Euron.” He growled.

“Yes Dwarf. Like them, but different, sleeker, bigger and doubtless would be great prizes if they didn’t belch dammed wildfire.” Euron responded with a look that promised retribution if he ever got the chance to use it.

“Then, while I beg your pardon for speculation Your Grace, those sound a lot like the ships of the Narrow Seas Trading Company, and only one man may order them to the other side of the world. Lord Petyr Baelish.”

He debated using one of the myriad of names he had heard used for the man, including his own brother’s preferred one of “Baelish One Eye”, but he didn’t want to irritate the men holding him prisoner, nor giveaway the sudden hope within him that had taken flight. He had not met the one eyed Lord, but he had read his book, and found the thing a more fascinating primer on warfare than anything else he had read since the days of Old Valyria. His means of fighting war hadn’t been by glory, or foolhardiness, but simple, calculated and above all else, single-mindedly. That was but the beginnings of what that Lord had done, and Jaime’s own telling of what had happened when the Mad King died had only elevated the place of the man more in Tyrion’s head. If Baelish was coming, he knew that salvation wouldn’t be far behind, and if the Ironborn fleet was broken, it would be coming ever quicker.

“Then this Lord Baelish will be the one I will kill by my own hands. Take him back to his cell, we have more serious work to do.”

He would gladly return to his cell. He knew he would have to hide his hope, but he no knew for fact that things might finally start to go his way.

*******

As the retreating back of the Dwarf faded, Euron promised his own sweet retributions deep inside his own head against the little shit. He spent a precious few seconds imagining just what he would do, and as he did he felt the conflict in his own mind flare up again. He wanted nothing more than to take the Dwarf, cackle in the tiny man’s face as he ripped the nose from the creatures body. But why did he want to do that? Well because it was the correct way things are supposed to be, but why was that particularly the goal, why not simply run him through and be done. Ok, he knew the answer to that one, it wouldn’t be fun if he just killed him, but in what way would flaying him slowly over an open fire not be how things were supposed to be?

“Euron!” He turned his attention back to his idiot of a brother and quickly chastised himself for running with his own thoughts as long as he had, idiot he may be but Euron didn’t fancy the odds of living long after pushing him into the ocean like he should be. At least not now.

“Yes brother mine?” No need to _not_ aggravate the oaf a little bit after all.

“I said had you heard me?”

He cast his mind back and thankfully found he had been paying _some_ attention somehow.

“Take my men, whatever ships we have left, swing over to Harlaw, grab the ships your good-brother has been holding on to, and then set things up to best rip apart the Greenlanders when they inevitably come to Pyke. Did I miss anything?”

“I told you to go and blunt their navy _before_ they reach my lands.”

And his brother’s idiocy never ended, he’d say something about the fool needing to leave his stone halls for a little while, but while the blood on these isles was his goal, he didn’t want to add his to the goal he didn’t want or understand.

“And I’m sure I could do that if I had the whole fleet Victarian had lead when we went south, but even with the Harlaw ships I will not, so instead I can _win_ this fight by keeping it to the shores that even a suckling babe knows better than those fools _ever_ will.”

He gave his brother a big smile then, and while it took a few moments, his brother finally grunted with a sharp nod, the closest thing to an agreement and “you are correct” he would receive doubtlessly.

“Well then, by your leave Your Grace?” He just prevented himself from filling the words with sarcasm, and judging by the deepening scowl on Balon’s face, he didn’t keep it all out. No matter, his brothers role in all this was nearly up, or just beginning, either way it didn’t matter unless it did.

-

He was aboard his flagship, he was sure it was named _Silence_ except his crew kept calling it something else, he would need to do something about that. Maybe if he took his crew’s tongues they would get the name right, but that would be a terrible idea, the right idea, but not yet, or yesterday. True, he hadn’t done it much before, but he got plenty of practice in Lannisport, yes, but he wasn’t supposed to do that at Lannisport either, that wasn’t right, but it would do, more blood for the throne and all that. He smiled, as he did he saw a nearby crewmember flinch away, he did nothing for now, but that crewman would need to die.

Slowly and painfully, naturally. Maybe he could be the first to lose his tongue? No matter, he paced the deck of his ship until he was in a position to simply gaze over the side of his ship at the island and hummed to himself in a tuneless way.

He watched the waves breaking against the quay his ships was tied against, and instead of the white foam and blueish-green colour dashing the rocks, he saw the rust and brown colours of what was _supposed_ to wash over the rocks, as then they would allow the weapon to be forged. He didn’t know what weapon, or why he cared, but he knew he did. Strange that. For a moment he felt _strange_ like a man in bonds liberated from them, for the briefest of moments his thoughts were nothing but to realise just how _strange_ everything he was doing was, how everything had still made sense before he drew the first drop of blood in Lannisport. But no matter, he put those thoughts away, they wouldn’t help the plan, so he might as well ignore them, instead he settled his gaze on a raven perched nearby, staring at him. He stared back at it and waved a little bit, he could see the bird wave back in a fashion, and while the same part that told him things were strange screamed at him to kill the bird, he just smiled.

One way or another, there would just be another one, might as well be civil until then.

***

When dealing with a navy on the level of “not _quite_ a bunch of castles with sails” it made Petyr’s ships stand out even more against the others. Not that all the ships in the Royal Fleet were lopsided monstrosities, as that would be unfair to the smaller ships and occasionally sensibly constructed craft nearby. But there was a couple that had come from the Redwyne fleet who had exactly one redeeming quality, and that was that, fortunately, they could carry a lot of soldiers in them. The trade-off was that they rode high in the water, were slower than treacle uphill, and were ugly as _sin_ , but they did one thing well. Naturally enough, when given the choice between those ships, and the, in comparison, sleeker, larger and more steady on the water Bravossi Runners, King Stannis had picked Petyr’s own “flagship” to serve as the one to ferry him. Davos was still the King’s right hand man among the other ships, but Petyr was going to be the one actually carrying him. The good news about that was that Stannis was nothing if not a practical man, so he had deposited any flunky or hanger-on that wasn’t _directly_ useful to him onto other ships. The bad news was, among those that _did_ make it aboard Petyr’s ship was Oberyn Martell, and while the Red Viper seemed more focused on the task of fighting a war to go home, he was still more than capable of messing with Petyr’s head. Luckily, he mostly didn’t do it while Petyr was in Stannis’s presence, so Petyr was sticking to the Royal Stag like a tick to a real stag.

For the moment, the plan was take the isles that were not Pyke to start with, there was some grumbling that it would have been wiser to simply strike out at the isle holding House Greyjoy from the very beginning, but Stannis had made it clear that he wished to have complete and total control of all the isles before visiting his wrath on Balon Greyjoy. For taking Harlaw, a combination of Dornish and Stormlander troops had been selected, and once Petyr had finished overseeing dropping them off, he was to return to gather together the greater Northern, Riverlands and Vale force to take Great Wick. The Lannister’s to Salt Cliffe and the Reach forces to take Orkmont, would tie things up before landing the Royal Army forces on Pyke and ferrying forces over from the other islands to reinforce them. Petyr was _not_ looking forward to it, and he was going to be in line for a few very hard days, but it was the plan that had been decided upon, and he only hoped he got the opportunity to sink the rest of the Ironborn ships before they could try picking the various forces off in the penny packet. _That_ was the other reason why he was sticking to Stannis, as while he wasn’t going to be able to change the King’s mind on this campaign, he was hoping he’d be able to get him to pay attention to a couple of different minefields that Petyr was seeing. And if he wouldn’t cancel the attack on Harlaw, at least take enough ships to keep the Ironborn back.

So it was while he was attending to the King, well standing nearby and doing his best to look thoughtful and martial, that he was present when the sole Ironborn ship flying the colours of House Harlaw and a _very_ large seven pointed star on a white field flag was spotted by the Royal Fleet. There was no standard “Non-Combatant, please don’t kill me I just want to talk” flag in Westeros, but the Seven Pointed Star did a good job, and even in this world a big white flag helped a lot too and there was no don’t-kill like over-don’t-kill so combining the two wasn’t a bad idea. So instead of beating to _full_ combat conditions he gave the orders to get the crossbows up and have the flamethrowers ready without putting undue stress on the hoses. Last thing he wanted was one of them bursting with Stannis on board, the King hadn’t said anything to him about his feelings on the flamethrowers, outside of an initial “are you completely insane?” or two, and Petyr would rather not press the issue. He didn’t doubt that it was coming, but Stannis so far had been letting the matter stew.

“Well, on the positive side, I think we might have him slightly outnumbered.” He remarked as he fixed the strap on the right side of his cuirass. In theory the breastplate was supposed to be quick to get on and quick to get off, the reality was that fixing it on was something halfway through tightening a belt and clicking a hook. They came off quick, but putting them on could be a pain. His spared a quick glance at Stannis, and for a brief flash of a moment the ghost of a smile played across the King’s features, the man liked sarcasm, to a point.

“Agreed. Lord Baelish, I want two of your ships to go beyond in case there is more hiding beyond the horizon.”

“Yes, your Grace.” Petyr turned from beside the King towards Allard who already had a speaking trumpet at hand and Petyr swore, not for the last time, that once this was done he was going to sit down and get a system of system flags set up, even if it killed him.

He took the proffered trumpet, walked back a ways on the ships aft and raised it to his mouth. Luckily it _only_ took about five minutes of shouting back and forth to get the two nearest ships to do just that, and as the other two ships tacked on more sail and started to overtake the ship Petyr was currently on, he returned to beside the King, where Oberyn was now flanking, a short spear in his hands, and while the Red Viper gave him a quick glance, that was it. And for a tense fifteen minutes, they stood there watching the ship coming closer, and once they came within range, Petyr lifted the speaking trumpet in an unspoken question, to which Stannis simply nodded. He took a deep breath, and then felt a smile come across his face.

“Good morning!” Petyr called out through the gap between the ships. “In case you are not exactly aware, the Royal Fleet has you surrounded so if you would like to explain who you are and why you are here, we can all maybe avoid me sending you to your gods deep fried and crispy.”

He heard the sound of a brief snicker with a Dornish accent from somewhere to his right, but he didn’t turn to look as instead he focused on the other ship, and tried his best to listen to the response shouted through cupped hands.

“I am Lord Rodrik Harlaw, I seek to speak with my true lord King Stannis of the Seven Kingdoms who is now dealing with the harsh rebellion of the cur Balon Greyjoy.”

Petyr tried to keep the surprise at the response off his face as he turned to look towards Stannis who was still staring at the other ship. He quickly noticed Oberyn was looking as well, but the Viper didn’t bother hiding the confusion on his face. After a moment, Petyr felt compelled to ask the question, reckoning that Stannis might not have even noticed his looking to him.

“Your Grace?” Was all he said, no need for anything more, and the older man turned to face him.

“I will receive him; he may take a crew to row a small boat over to here, unarmed, and make his case. He has my word for safe conduct. Both yourself and Lord Oberyn will attend to me in this matter. We’ll do this on the deck, no comforts.”

Petyr nodded, raised the speaking trumpet again and relayed the royal message, after that he made quick arrangements with Captain Delver to get the most capable men ready to intervene if this was a trick. Stannis had some of his own Stormlanders on board that would do just that, but Petyr knew that Murphy was both real and a vindictive sort, so better to be over prepared. After that, it was a tense ten minutes of waiting, before the small boat pulled up alongside Petyr’s own craft and a single Ironborn came climbing up over the side of the ship. He was unarmed, but that didn’t stop Petyr’s hand going to the hilt of his sword, and he wasn’t the only one judging from the various movements of people around the deck, the only one who didn’t move as far as Petyr could see was Stannis himself. The Ironborn stood, slightly adjusted himself, and then noticing Stannis, knelt before him.

“Your Grace.” The Ironborn that Petyr guessed was Rodrik started to speak only to be cut off at once by a hand raised by Stannis.

“Rodrik of Harlaw. You took a great risk to place yourself before Us, and as such We feel it necessary to tell you if this is simply to plead for yourself, then you may yet be wasting your time. You followed Balon into rebellion, and as such I am inclined to not look at whatever you may say favourably.”

There were times when Petyr found Stannis’s manner refreshingly easy to deal with, and then there were times when the man’s single-mindedness could be infuriating. This seemed to be becoming one of those latter cases, and Petyr was trying to think how best he could possibly interject on this man’s behalf when Rodrik spoke again.

“Your Grace, I realise this, but I interject not for my own sake. I advised Balon not to rebel, I held my ships back as much as I could. I forbade my men from taking part in the actions at Lannisport with the exception of looting the stores along the water-front. If it is thy judgment that I pay for these crimes, so be it, for I am a King’s man who will accept the King’s judgment, but I ask for leniency not for myself, but for my people and kin.”

“Be that as it may, but you could have refused Balon your loyalty, stood against him entirely, forced his hand on the manner and remained loyal to Myself in times of difficulty instead of finding such loyalty because of impending invasion.”

“I could no more do that Your Grace, than you could have followed the Mad-King and foresworn your own brother.”

A silence fell over the deck then and Petyr had to resist the urge to say “oh _damn_ ” at that particular comeback. Rodrick had a point, but Stannis wasn’t exactly known for his willingness to accept his own hypocrisy on issues, after all very few men were.

“Your Grace” came the voice of Oberyn Martell, and Petyr looked at the Red Viper who took a step to place himself before the king and beside Rodrick “while it pains me to admit it, he does speak a simple truth. My own family answered the Mad-King’s call because we were coerced to, even when our oaths and honour should have been enough to compel us. There are times, your Grace, when serving through difficult times is simply impossible.”

“There must be justice done. Our rule cannot simply be seen as to be easily flaunted, and then forgiven for doing so, and as my own Brother’s actions made clear, there are times which call for men to make difficult decisions.”

Stannis’s face was a full cliff of granite now, and Petyr mentally kicked himself for what he was about to do, but he spoke the point that appeared before him.

“And your own brother’s actions were to punish, yes, but also forgive those who stood against him because their betters commanded them to do so. Your Grace, give me the word and I’ll kill the man myself, but until you do, I would beseech you to think about what a precedent it would set for a man to confess loyalty if only to be rewarded with steel.”

He didn’t move to stand beside the Lord of Harlaw, but he stayed looking at the King who gave him back a look that Petyr couldn’t quite decipher. Before finally turning to look at Rodrik, and speaking with a deliberate pace that seemed to reflect his own ill-humour.

“We cannot allow flaunting of our own rule, as we have said. Nor, however, can We simply ignore Our own past actions. Rodrik of Harlaw, you will no longer be the Lord of Harlaw, but the titles shall be transferred to your own heir, with a tithe of a fourth of all incomes to be paid directly to the Crown for a period of ten years. You shall also serve the Crown in any capacity that We see fit as a form of penance for your actions, for a period to be determined when such an action is found.”

The last part caught Petyr off guard as, frankly, the rest of it made sense. There was something there he wasn’t seeing, but he could come back to that later, for now his attention returned to the still kneeling Ironborn.

“Your Grace is a just man, and will gladly accept. Harlaw is yours, your Grace, and with it what ships I have been able to keep out of the hands of Balon.”

Stannis simply nodded in response at that and turned from the still kneeling Ironborn, walking towards where Petyr’s former cabin was located in an action of Royal dismissal, Petyr looked at Oberyn, who gave him a slight roll of a shoulder in place of a shrug, and Petyr sighed.

“I think” he said strolling over towards the Ironborn former noble “that his Grace is finished with you for now. So why don’t you and I discuss exactly how many ships you are talking about, and how best we might use them?”

***

He did like a good fight, a nice little scrap to get his hands on his opponent and do to him whatever felt natural after the fact. Their screams and other noises always were a _fun_ part of winning a good fight, but as Euron lowered his prized far-seer from his eye, he realised he definitely wasn’t going to get one.

“Take us about, best head back to Pyke and give my brother the news that his good-brother has decided to kneel and grovel.”

He couldn’t be sure of that, of course, but it didn’t take a man of great intellect to figure out that one Ironborn ship among the Royal fleet, flying the Greenlanders Gods’ flag, was there to talk instead of fight, and considering that it was definitely a Harlaw ship, he was confident that his brother’s good-brother had decided to play turn-coat. No matter, he would receive his just rewards in time, Euron knew that, just as he knew taking his one ship against a whole fleet would be a waste of his time.

“Captain, that will take us head-on into the wind, we won’t be able to make great-“ The man’s voice cut-off with a grunt as Euron ran through his guts with his belt dagger, he’d rather make it a longer experience, the man he had just stabbed had been a long-time shipmate of his, and that’s why he decided to do it quick with mercy instead of feeling guilt. He pushed the doubled-over man into the water and then looked at his crew.

“Well? You heard him, we’ll be head into the wind, so to your oars.”

They looked at him bemusedly, but he paid them no mind, taking a place at the oars and starting to sing as he pulled on the oar. No words, just a tune, and it only took a moment before he heard other voices following him on and pulling the oars. Good, it would be bad to start killing more men, even if they did deserve it.

***

Petyr had seen the Ironborn former Lord off back to his own ship and was now ducking back into the cabin serving as Stannis quarters. He needed to make a report to the King, if nothing else the Ironborn ship spotted that had turned and run would be note-worthy.

“Your Grace” he said as he entered “if you have a few moments?”

“Enter Petyr, I do. What was the situation with that Ironborn ship?”

“No chance to pursue them. We’d be head-on into the wind and while my ships can still move, that ship is smaller and oar-powered, so it would out-run us in that situation. The two ships I had out to make sure that Harlaw wasn’t trying to trap us didn’t see it as they weren’t expecting a ship to approach from that direction.”

“No matter. It is somewhat of a blessing we were spotted.”

Petyr blinked at that, and took a moment to coach his voice before he spoke.

“It is Your Grace?”

Stannis looked at him then, and he did something that made Petyr worried, he _smiled_.

“Yes. Now they know where we are, we should be able to draw them out into a battle, but now we can do it with the additional reinforcements of Harlaw against a depleted Ironborn fleet. With them done for, we can skip the nonsense of individual landings and land straight on Pyke.”

“The individual landings were your plan Your Grace” Petyr said, and then continued slowly “unless of course, you were using them as different opportunities to draw out the Ironborn ships into a coup de grace.”

It was a testament to how surprised he was that he spoke without thinking, and shortly after doing it, he wanted the French words back.

““A blow of mercy?” Not quite, though I’m not surprised that the Tyroshi would view it that way. No, but it will hopefully end this thing quickly, even if I do not feel merciful. Thankfully, a few of my assumptions paid off, and I must thank you for acting as I thought you would Petyr.”

Stannis smiled. Again. It was enough to make Petyr almost forget to thank terrible world-building for Tyroshi resembling French enough that he got away with what he said. Instead he focused his mind on what Stannis had just said.

“As you thought I would, Your Grace?”

“Blame my wife, she has been very instructional in better understanding and predicting those around me. If she was more devoted to her father I would be worried, but Cersei has helped me to identify those who advise me and surround on, and how they might react in a given situation. As such, I was fairly certain that given a situation where I needed to make a scene of punishing a man, when even such punishment was uncalled for, Lord Petyr Baelish could be counted upon to say something.”

Stannis hadn’t stopped smiling yet. Petyr was starting to get very worried, though now he was certain that the idea of Stannis and Cersei working together was another thing to add to the list of internal loathing over not doing enough to save Robert’s life.

“You also brought the Martell’s along because you knew Oberyn would argue for clemency due to being forced into loyalty. But how did you know Harlaw would act as he did?”

“Tygett Lannister kept track of which ships attacked where in King’s Landing. I combined that with Davos’s own report on which ships where involved in the action near The Arbor, as while Davos may have a basic grasp on literacy, he can identify ships flags with the clarity of polished silver. Those two things pointed towards Harlaw not being a willing member of this rebellion, and when he arrived under truce to surrender I was vindicated in my decision.”

“And if he hadn’t?”

“We would have taken the isle with the forces we have. A situation where, no-matter the outcome, I would have won.”

Stannis’s expression became one of satisfaction, and Petyr couldn’t help but feel a not small amount of awe at the sheer chutzpah of the King before him, but as quickly as Stannis’s expression became that, it changed into one of seriousness as he looked at Petyr.

“Now, give me the numbers on the ships Harlaw brings to our side, better to break the Balon as soon as possible.”

***

His return to Pyke was without ceremony, which suited him fine. Instead he simply made his way to his brother’s court feeling light on his feet and whistling the old song of the Kraken and the Fisherwoman as he went. At the look on his brother’s face, he couldn’t help himself.

“… _and you my pretty will find damp here,_

_But not the only place damp below.”_

He belted out the last two words and saw Balon’s face become even more angry, which was good, he wanted him angry.

“Euron” Balon growled from nearly clenched teeth “I gave you strict instructions and yet you are back early and without Rodrik’s ships.”

“That is because, your Grace, Rodrik has decided being a thrall to the Greenlander’s is worth more than being a free man under your leadership. Your good-brother has kneeled to the Stag.”

The delivery had the desired effect, and while his good-sister quickly gathered the brats and made her escape, Balon started taking his rage out on the furniture. It took him two chairs to calm down, and Euron tried not to smile too broadly as his brother turned on him with the broken legs of a chair in his hands.

“Take the ships, hit the bastards and then go to Harlaw and _burn it to the FUCKING GROUND!_ ”

Balon stared at him, breathing heavily, and Euron counted to three before he responded.

“No.”

Balon dropped the chair legs and his hands went to the axes at his sides.

“Of all the shit I have put up with from you Euron, treason will see you die.”

“I say “No” brother because that is what they will be expecting. Please, before you strike me down, listen. I have a plan.”

Balon had the axes half raised, but he stopped for a moment before he moved, and his head moved slightly in a nod. Taking that as his cue, Euron told his brother of the plan. It was a rather simple one, and honestly he doubted it would work to stop the others, but it would do one thing. It would bring a great beautiful, terrifying wave of blood over Pyke, and if done right, the Islands as a whole, and all he would need is a ship ready to sail that wave on towards the goal he was working towards.

And wouldn’t that be fun?


	37. Chapter 35

**Chapter 35**

**Stannis I**

Stannis Baratheon, first of his name, King of the Andals and First Men, Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, and all the rest of the tripe was not a real being. He was an ideal, a shallow mummer’s shadow trick designed to make people see what they wanted to see. He had learned that lesson during the days of starvation at Storm’s End that above all else, he needed to be _seen_ to be someone who he wasn’t, for if he didn’t, those that looked to him would be broken. That lesson had allowed him to keep the defenders of Storm’s End loyal, that by showing them only a Lord who would suffer with them, stand with them, starve with them, be honest and just with them, that they would follow him into the Seven Hells. He would never have Robert or Renly’s easy way with people, he had known that since before his parents died, but while he may not be able to befriend them, he could damn well _lead_ them. As he looked on the strange scene before him, he knew he couldn’t afford to let the mummer’s trick falter, he needed to lead.

“Damn the boats. Lord Baelish, you will land us there.”

He pointed at the section of the beaches that wasn’t on fire. It was most likely a trap, but considering the burning Ironborn ships on the beaches, it was his only option if he didn’t want to keep his men crammed into tight quarters aboard ships for any longer.

“As you wish, Your Grace.”

He heard Lord Baelish’s unspoken words as well, mainly the ones that would doubtless be questioning him, but while the one-eyed Lord would be willing to do that, he wouldn’t do it in the open, and instead would do what he was ordered. It was a useful quality, very much like Davos in that regard, but whereas the former smuggler could only be used in so many ways, Stannis knew that he would be having words with his Master of Coin about how best to employ Baelish when all this was done. He cast thoughts on Baelish’s future aside as he turned his attention back to the beach, that it would be an ambush was a given, sadly, but if there were any troops in his employ he trusted to be able to take whatever was coming, it was those of Dorne and the Stormlands.

He gripped the sword on his hip, it bore no name nor enchantment, it was no different in quality than the swords that his own Stormlanders carried. The only difference was that around a ring on the pommel there was tied to it what at first glance would be golden rope, it was not, it was a token given to him by Cersei before he left, and he let it lightly play over his left knuckles as his thoughts went from the battlefield he was about to engage in, to the place he wished he was.

“ _Go forth My King” she said, there was no false sweetness to her voice, instead it was simply one of fury, directed not at him but at those others who would dare challenge them, ”go forth with this token, and return with your shield, or upon it.”_

Their marriage was not, as far as Stannis was aware, a particularly normal one. Granted, it had started in the most normal of ways, that being a political match that was used to salve Tywin Lannister’s sore ego over Robert’s determination to marry Lyanna Stark. Truth be told, he had never expected it to develop into anything more than mutual tolerance, and when he had been informed in the tents outside Storm’s End of his future marriage, he had willingly gone to command the fleet to take Dragonstone rather than deal with it at once. Like many things, he felt he would chafe under what Robert had left him in his legacy, but unlike such things as the Lords Charter, it had turned out rather well. It did help that Cersei was probably the most beautiful woman Stannis had ever seen, but even without that particularly vain aspect, it was also that he had discovered that she was a woman with a brain of her own, and in many respects his good-father was to thank for such a discovery.

Tywin Lannister had thought Stannis would easily be manipulated and that his daughter was still his to command. It had been only three months into their marriage when the Old Lion had deemed to order his wife to be silent, and Stannis had pointedly reminded him that _his wife_ was not Tywin Lannister’s to command. That night Cersei and he had shared a bed for the first time since their wedding night, and she had informed him of the sort of things that lurked within her head, and he had _listened_ intently. He would never truly be able to understand the motivations of those around him, well, on any level but the most practical, but his wife could see the meanings behind others words, guess the actions of the Small Council in advance, and otherwise serve to show him the things he could not see. In return, he simply had to treat her not as some brood-mare, but as a partner, and he found in that a happiness he had not realised he did not possess. It was not to say it was a straight bard’s tale of romance and joy, they fought and argued on occasion, and there were times his wife needed to be reminded _he_ was King, not her. But he never raised a hand to her, never allowed anyone _else_ to even think of raising a hand to her, and even in their moments of most frustration with each other, they would not show anything but a united front against the world.

He desired nothing more than to be back beside her, not for the more base reasons that some would assume, but simply so that he could be beside the woman that he found had become his other half, as naturally as a shadow cast on the ground. To say nothing of seeing the son they both loved, Steffon, who with his strong resemblance to Stannis’s own father would serve as a capable King in his own right, if he only had half of his mother’s cunning.

“Your Grace, a boat is ready to take you ashore.”

He was dragged from his thoughts by the voice of Allard Seaworth, Davos’s third son looked respectfully at him and Stannis allowed a slight brief grin at Lord Baelish’s “Sea-Squire”.

“Very well young Seaworth, show me to it.”

***

While the boats pulled up as close to the coast as they could, Stannis looked around at the handful of Stormlanders he had landed with and nodded. The men on the boat with him had been with him at Storm’s End, they were well equipped and experienced, and as the boat stopped he turned to them.

“Into the water, make for the sand.”

He moved himself over the boats edge and felt the cold water around his knees as he moved forward in his armour, sword and shield in hand, towards the drier ground. He was aware from the sounds around him that the others were with him, and as he got closer, and his visibility began to waver from the smoke of the burning ships, he gritted his teeth and waited for the ambush that was doubtless coming. But it didn’t come, at least not straight away. His Stormlanders, as well as other men from the boats, were formed up on him when the first Ironborn attack came, timed for when the rowboats were on their return to the ships to carry the next wave.

It began with a volley of arrows fired at close distance, and while Stannis was lucky not to be hit, he felt two of them impact with his shield, and that was all the warning he received before the Ironborn following the archers were upon him and the melee had begun. He didn’t have time to think, to plan, to do anything more than simply _fight_ as he brought his sword either into slashes, stabs, parries or even just strikes against the men who came towards him. At one point he saw an axe coming towards him from his left, and while he caught it on his shield at the last moment, the man who held it was soon impaled by a spear in the hands of a man in Martell clothing. He had enough time to grunt a vague thanks before he continued on, but as he turned to fight again, he realised that as quickly as the Ironborn had come, they had faded away again.

He tried to see where they had gone, but in the smoke that was still almost choking his position he couldn’t make them out, instead he felt the battle fury leave him and started to breathe heavier as his muscles made their own objections over the frantic motions that they had needed to go through.

“They’ve fallen back.”

There was no question to the voice, no hesitation, and Stannis turned his head back to the man in Martell clothing.

“That would seem to be the case Prince Oberyn. Any suggestions?”

No harm asking the Dornish prince about what an ambushing force might be thinking, they knew the tactics as well as anyone did.

“Fan out from the beach, take ground, but stay close and be ready to fight if they come again. When the rest of the men come in, start to reinforce as best we can.”

“A good idea. Shield wall? I don’t want to lose any more men to bow shots.”

“A prudent suggestion your Grace.”

Stannis grunted and turned to his nearest sergeant.

“Shield Wall surrounding the beach head, those bastards will probably try to come again and I’d rather they face an organised force.”

The Sergeant bowed and started off to begin yelling orders, and as men filed past Stannis to take up positions in an outer perimeter, he allowed himself a look at the nearest dead Ironborn.

It was a man, but he looked almost like little more than a boy, and he still had in his hand the axe he had nearly struck Stannis with, but the axe was not a war-axe, simply a trades-man’s tool taken in a hurry, and he in turn wore no armour, simply the normal clothes on his back.

“The few I’ve looked at are the same.”

Oberyn’s voice came from Stannis’s left, and he turned again to see the Dornish prince staring at the body.

“If I had to guess” Stannis said, his words coming slowly “Balon is throwing everything he can at us, and that means putting a knife in every Ironborn’s hand.”

“Not the worst strategy from his point of view. Tire us out with waves of peasantry armed with almost nothing and hit us then with his main troops.”

Stannis had nothing to say to that, he just let a deep frown settle into his face. His good-father would cheerfully create another island out of the skulls of every single Ironborn, but Stannis would rather avoid that particular solution to this matter, but the action of turning every possible other living person against them would make avoiding that possibility much harder.

He turned from the dead Ironborn then to look back towards the ships were the next wave of soldiers was being loaded onto boats, luckily only Baelish’s ships were not able to come close enough to the shore to allow a quick turnaround of men being ferried to the beach. He would need to give orders for more fighters to be brought to Pyke that much was certain, if Balon was willing to throw away the lives of his normal peasantry, it promised to be a much harder siege than he first guessed.

***

The fires of the ships had burnt out by the morning of the second day on Pyke, although some still put out smoke to a lesser degree, and while their original hazard may have been lessened, removing of the wrecks to free up more beach space proved to be both a blessing and a curse. A blessing as it had allowed the last of the supplies to be unloaded, and considering he would need to hold out for nearly two weeks to allow for reinforcements to reach the position, he wanted ever single piece of grain and arrow he could get his hands on. It was a curse however, in that every time his forces tried to move a wreck just slightly outside of the haphazard camp, or “beach-head” as Baelish had called it when he came ashore to receive orders, was attacked by another swarm of Ironborn peasantry and archers. Attempts to meet them in battle were less successful than the first landing as they had taken to just hitting his men long enough to get his attention, and disappearing before any substantial action could be had.

Stannis had ignored the exact words Prince Oberyn had used to describe the situation, mainly how it had reminded him of the actions of one of his paramours, mainly because Stannis recognised the pattern from accounts of campaigns fought in Valeria among the Free Cities and Dothraki, as well as his own bedroom if he was being honest. It was frustrating in many ways, and only got more so as the days dragged on and instead of besieging the home of house Greyjoy, he found his own troops being the ones under siege. At least he had landed with a month’s worth of supplies, so provided they kept those safe, his men wouldn’t starve or run out of water, there was some grumbling over the rations, but overall the men had put up with it, and while it had been an uncomfortable existence, it had not been anything unbearable. The only major upset had been when Prince Oberyn had taken an arrow to his left side on the sixth day, and while it looked nasty, the Masester’s that had landed with the troops, as well as the surgeons and the Prince himself, assured Stannis that he would survive with nothing but a scar.

“ _Simply put your Grace” Oberyn said while trying to smile through the pain “if it had hit anything important, I’d be in a much worse state.”_

“ _I see. I am no healer, but I do hope you recover well Prince Oberyn.” Empty platitudes were one of those things Cersei had instructed him was very important, but even then he did feel a slight connection to the Dornish man who had been fighting beside him so it wasn’t as much of a forced reaction as it otherwise might be._

“ _As do I your Grace, but on the plus side, if I die you have a great weapon in your hands.”_

“ _Oh?”_

“ _Simply have the tears of every maiden in the Seven Kingdoms collected in buckets, and you’ll be able to sink this entire island!”_

Stannis knew he was a serious appearing man, he didn’t shave his hair or maintain his beard out of simple convenience, but because they helped with that image. Even then, he had chuckled at the Prince’s bragging statement, it was like something Robert would have said, but whereas his older brother would have been boasting, Prince Oberyn had said it with a subtle certainty. Still, he could not afford to dwell too much on the events of the past day, it had been ten days since the fleet had departed to fetch him his reinforcements, and while the Ironborn had been quiet the last two days, he could not afford to be complacent. He was about to walk out of his command tent and ask for a report when the flaps were opened and he was faced with Ser Barriston Selmy. The former Kingsguard quickly threw a fist to his chest and bowed his head.

“Your Grace, I apologise for the intrusion but I was leading a force of men on a patrol and we think we might have come across an opportunity to strike at the Ironborn ahead of time.”

“Go on Ser Barriston.”

“My men and I came across a force of Ironborn who are much better equipped than those we have been fighting, they seem to be actual arms men of House Greyjoy, and while I can not be certain, the man leading them looked to be Euron Greyjoy, Balon’s brother.”

“Were you and your men seen?”

“No your Grace, we spotted them from the crest of a hill nearby and they were some ways away near a collection of huts. It seemed to me that they were slaughtering sheep in the fields nearby to deny them to us. If we are hasty, we should be able to catch them in the open.”

Stannis nodded at the information, there was always the possibility that this was another trap, and as such he would need to take precautions.

“How large of a force?”

“Roughly seven hundred if I had to guess. Not enough to be the full garrison of the castle, but about a quarter of it.”

“I see.” Stannis quickly consulted the numbers available to himself and made a decision “Go from here, alert Lord Dondarrion that he will have command of the forces being left to hold the camp in case this is a ruse. I’ll see to the marshalling of forces to take with us, when you are finished with that task, find me and then you and your men will lead us there in the best route that can get us there without making enough noise to wake the dead.”

“How many men will we take your Grace?”

“Fifteen hundred. Twice as many and a hundred more.”

Ser Barriston’s eyes burned with approval for a moment, and then he was gone to see to his orders. Stannis was going to be stripping his force down a lot to deal with this threat, but after the last few days, he was eager to get his teeth into the Ironborn forces. Besides, both Lord Dondarrion and Prince Oberyn would still be in the camp, and even with the reduced numbers he would leave with them, he could count on both of them to fight and command capably enough.

***

It took the better part of the morning, and several hours after that, to get a move on. Fifteen hundred men does not move quickly, and as much as Stannis wished they would, they didn’t move particularly quietly either. In saying that, it did move quietly enough all things considered, and after the force got moving, it didn’t take long for Ser Barriston to lead the army to near the position. Once there, he lead Stannis to a point to be able to see where the Ironborn had been spotted, and blessedly he found them still there. He couldn’t tell at the distance, but it appeared that the forces were in a relaxed state, and the lambs being cooked over fires were obviously a draw to his eyes. He took a quick glance towards the huts nearby, but they seemed empty, unlike the fields of dead sheep, fodder and other detritus that littered the approach towards the Ironborn. House Greyjoy may not sow, but the poor thralls did.

“Get the men to form up and make ready. Ser Barriston, you take the left flank, Lord Fowler” he looked at the Dornish lord who had wound up with command of the Dornish force with him “you take the right. I will lead the centre, once ready, we are over the hill and upon them at best speed.”

He would have killed to have a few hundred chargers on hand now, but bringing cavalry across for the assault on the Iron Islands had been viewed as more trouble than they would be worth, even if right now they would have been a perfect solution. Instead he would make do, his force contained a core of about two hundred archers, they were lightly armoured and instructed to charge ahead first, get inside bow range, loose at least two volleys and then move aside to allow the thirteen hundred other men under his command to hit the foe. It would not be a pretty fight, nor a grand one like his brothers campaigns, but he intended it to be _effective_.

He looked towards the commander of the archers and nodded, and with a couple of shouts they started moving forward, Stannis counted to ten, drew his own sword and started forward with his section of the battle line. He didn’t shout anything, didn’t let out a roar, he simply advanced at the best speed he could in his armour, praying the few hundred yards wouldn’t tire him out too much. About halfway towards the Ironborn he started to hear his heart in his ears, and felt the eagerness that only battle-lust could bring upon him, even with his helmet on he felt his face break into a wide smile as he charged on forwards, and as quickly as he could think about his situation, he was upon the enemy, the first to fall before him, an Ironborn in Greyjoy colours with a hastily grabbed shield failing to save him.

The next moments were a blur, he barely had time to notice the few Ironborn that had been felled by arrows, he didn’t care, he fought beside a few men in his own house’s colours and laid waste to any Ironborn before him, working not as an individual on the battlefield, but as part of a sharp co-ordinated team, moving, fighting, killing. He fought on and on until he noticed something _odd_ , a loud high pitched whistling, or _several_ such noises, and he drew himself back from the combat long enough to wonder what it was, and then he realised it. Signal arrows. But why?

No sooner had the idea graced his mind when he heard a massive roar come from around his men, and he saw dead sheep rise from the ground to be thrown aside, same with hey and other things. The huts that sat nearby that had seemed empty suddenly emptied of men and from behind stone walls more and more Ironborn troops began to appear, it took him a moment, but then he realised, it had been a trap. He turned back towards the centre of his forces, he would need to take control of the situation, to prepare to fight off this much larger force, but he was too late. A large contingent of Ironborn were almost upon him, and he had to fight, among the men coming towards him though, he saw Euron Greyjoy, smiling wildly and pointing at Stannis. He couldn’t hear what Balon’s kin was saying, that was unnecessary, he could guess, and he would have to fight to survive.

“STORMLANDERS” he bellowed as loud as he could “TO YOUR KING AND STAND!”

It would not go down in history as one of the greatest battle-cries, but it was sufficient to the task, and he saw the men around him stiffen slightly and form in tighter ranks. And within moments, the Ironborn were upon them, but whereas the previous engagements against them had either been against unarmored peasants, or unready armsmen, this was against men armoured, prepared and ready, and he found himself not simply fighting the enemy in front of him, but the ones to either side of him too. He could focus on nothing but that, and slowly and surely he found his footing being pushed back. The idea that fifteen hundred men could be caught out in such a fashion would have been laughable if they had still been in a single unified formation, but as it was, the Ironborn had gotten them to break themselves up into knotted groups in the initial assault, and now were fighting not one unified force, but a lot of scattered ones. If he wasn’t the victim of it, he could almost admire what Euron Greyjoy had done, instead he snarled and let fly a curse as his sword bit into the neck of a Greyjoy armsman before him, but while that man went down, another took his place, and beside Stannis another man died, this time in Stormland clothing.

“ALIVE” he heard a voice scream from behind the man before him “WE WANT THE CROWNED STAG ALIVE!”

Stannis felt a strange grin on his face then.

‘Good’ he thought in a way calmer than he felt ‘if they want me alive, and I want them dead, that gives me an advantage.’ He threw his left arm forward with all his might, stunning the man before him with the shield, and followed up with a series of hacking blows that more beat than cut the man into the ground. He looked up then, but found two more men in that ones place, and while he tried his best, he was no great warrior like Robert had been, instead he found himself fighting desperately against the two men, until one had ripped his shield away. The one who did that got a sword to his face for the pleasure, but then another man replaced him, with a nasty looking mallet in his hand and a grinning smile on his face, and it took Stannis a moment to realise who it was. He wore not heavy armour, but boiled leather and maybe some mail on the arms, but a golden kraken on his breast announced him to the world.

“Come on Stag” said Euron Greyjoy, lifting the mallet up “let’s dance!”

Stannis tried to swing at him, but the Ironborn dodged from it gracefully, and when Stannis tried to follow up with a thrust, he found himself pulled out by the arm from the remaining Stormlanders, and felt a blow against it that almost caused him to drop his sword in pain and shock.

“Oh it hurts doesn’t it? One thing your brother understood, when fighting a big armoured man, bring a big hammer.”

A laugh accompanied that, and Stannis was staring at Euron when another Ironborn came past him with an axe ready to bring down.

“NO” Euron screamed and Stannis watched in shock as the same mallet that had struck his arm smashed into the Ironborn’s head, becoming lodged for a second as the man hit the ground “FUCKING ALIVE! GODS GIVE ME STRENGTH TO DEAL WITH MORONS!”

It bought him the few seconds to recover his arm as Euron twisted the mallet free from the other man’s skull, gore and blood dripping from it.

“Apologies your Grace” he said, raising it back up and staring at Stannis “but it is so hard to find the help.”

He then came at Stannis, swinging hard and it took everything Stannis had to withstand the blows that came pouring in, each one a source of immense pain upon him as it struck his armour. He didn’t notice when he dropped his sword, simply trying to fend off the demonic hammer with his bare hands, doing nothing more than trying to grip the very air where the Ironborn was. That was when the blow fell on his forehead and he was knocked backwards, staggering, his vision suddenly darkened and narrowed down to little more than pinpricks, his breathing hard and his stomach demanding to empty itself right now. He did not fall, but he felt himself slump to one knee as he could not summon the strength to stand any longer.

“Oh what a pity your Grace, I was just starting to get a rhythm going. I think. Your sweet grunts and screams were such soft music to my ears, why, I think now I will-”

Euron cut off abruptly as his eyes went up, Stannis barely noticed, he was fumbling with too large fingers at the strap of his helm, he needed it off, he needed to be able to breath. He felt the hot blood running down his face and his stomach redoubled its demands, and when he finally got it free, he wretched violently on the ground, and on Euron Greyjoy, breaking whatever concentration the other man had possessed at whatever was distracting him, and then Stannis _heard_ it. It was hard to tell apart from the other noise, loud as the battle that still raged was, but it did sound different, more intense, and then he saw Euron take a half step back and raise the hammer again as he heard the noise and actually recognized it as human voices.

“TO THE KING!”

“KING STANNIS AND NO QUARTER!”

“WE STAND! WE FIGHT! _THEY_ DIE!”

“THE CROWNED STAG!”

And then, before he could comprehend what was happening, Ironborn men around him were falling back behind Euron Greyjoy, and the brother of Balon Greyjoy was stepping back as a long, slightly curved, sword came at him in a deadly slash in the hands of a man wearing a simple brown cloak. The man wore an eyepatch on his left eye, and it took Stannis a moment to recognise him.

“Lord Baelish?”

“STAND THE FUCK UP AND GET THE EVER LOVING FUCK BEHIND ME.” The one-eyed lord yelled, not taking his eye off the Ironborn who had narrowly deflected the slash. “YOUR GRACE.”

Stannis stood on shaky legs as Baelish continued to keep Euron at bay with slashes and cuts that would be lethal to the lightly armoured Ironborn man, seemingly abandoned by the other men of house Greyjoy who were falling back behind him, pursued by a combination of Dornish, Stormland and Royal Army fighters.

“Ah, so _you’re_ the one I heard about” Euron said, lifting his hammer but staying just out of Baelish’s reach “the one who sent all those sweet screams aflame to the Drowned Gods? Or would it be better to say the one who lost an eye trying to be noble? How about the one that isn’t really _one_ now is he?”

Baelish said nothing, and Stannis started to look for a weapon, he was about to reach an axe on the ground when Euron spoke again.

“Tell me little man, did you not learn to avoid fights after the last time you lost an eye?”

“Yup, I did.”

It was all Petyr Baelish said, and then he turned from Euron and tackled Stannis into the ground. He didn’t have time to even ask what Baelish was doing when he heard several noises pass fast overhead, Baelish grunted, and rolled off him then to stand up, before offering Stannis a hand.

“Sorry about that your Grace” he said “but I needed you out of the way.”

“The way of what?”

Petyr simply pointed at where Euron Greyjoy was now on his knees, a look of surprise on his face as he stared at the veritable pincushion of crossbow bolts sticking from his chest. Almost impossibly, the Ironborn’s head rose and his mouth moved, letting nothing but blood come bubbling out, and almost absently, Stannis saw one of the Royal Army men walk over with a hatchet, and start hacking Greyjoy’s head off.

“Excuse the dismemberment your Grace, but Jaime Lannister _did_ promise a heads weight in gold for any dead members of House Greyjoy.”

"How did you do this?"

Baelish looked at him then as he cleaned his sword on the brown cloak he was wearing.

"My ships are _fast_ Your Grace, probably would have been here the day before if we had not hit a bad squall on the way here."

Stannis could only stare at him, and after a moment the one-eyed Lord had the decency to look slightly abashed.

"I prioritized collecting the smallest force available, the Royal Army, and I was able to squeeze about a thousand of them into the five ships, at a tight squeeze and minimal equipment. When we landed, Prince Oberyn told me what was going on, so I took the first wave ashore and came here."

"But why you?"

"Well your Grace, someone had to lead them."

Stannis looked at Baelish again, and as the other man looked back, Stannis made his mind up.

"Command suits you Lord Baelish. When we settle this, you will be keeping it. Do not lose that cloak, you will need it."


	38. Chapter 36

**Chapter 36**

**Petyr XXIV**

“ _It bears repeating” he said, staring around him in what seemed like a dark and foggy version of the Godswood he had been just standing in a moment ago “what the fuck?”_

_One moment he had been about to go get his mopey arse into something resembling an acceptable appearance for dinner. Lyanna Stark having gotten him to actually acknowledge how he had looked, the next a raven had shoved him into a tree where his bloody hand had landed slap dang in the middle of._

“ _Listen” he called out into the void surrounding him “I might have a_ vague _notion what’s going on here and frankly if I could just-”_

“ _YOU LET ME DIE!”_

_The voice echoed from essentially all around him, and Petyr became acutely aware of the fact that where he was standing had changed in appearance. Gone was the Winterfell Godswood, instead he now stood in the middle of the training ground at the Eyrie. That however was a secondary concern, as before him now the owner of the voice, towering at about twelve feet tall._

_Robert Baratheon, in his full “Demon of the Trident” regalia and glory was towering over Petyr, holding an impossibly large warhammer. It was enough to give him pause for a moment as the sheer confusion at what was happening swirled around in him, and it didn’t help that for some reason he was seeing double and now had a_ splitting _headache._

“ _I didn’t want to let you die” he said to the monster, surprisingly calm all things considered, “but I didn’t know how to prevent it until-”_

“ _SILENCE! DIE YOU WORTHLESS WORM!”_

_The warhammer impacted on him straight in the chest he felt his rib bones shatter and fly through his body and out the other-side as he arced through the sky, stopping when he crashed into something solid, the Heart-Tree of the Winterfell Godswood. He tried to move, to speak, to breath, but his spine was shattered, his breathing broken, and the blood simply gurgled from his mouth._

_And then he saw himself, standing over him, and then he was there, staring over the shattered version of himself. Remembering the pain, the fear, the confusion and he fell to his knees, and as he did the world around him changed again._

_He knew where he was again, it was the main hall of Winterfell itself this time, but it wasn’t at the same time. The headache at least was gone, or it simply had fled in the face of the demon-Robert encounter, and his vision was more singular. He tried to move his vision, and found he had a full range of vision again, but while he was there, while he could feel the stones below and the clothes on his shoulders, he couldn’t move, instead his body moved by itself._

“ _I beg you.” He said, except he didn’t. It was his voice, his breath, his body, but he had no control over it, he could only stay on as a strange passenger in this motion and he realised then that he was staring at two people then. They were familiar, and at once he knew them, they were Sansa and Bran Stark, but how?_

“ _I loved your mother since the time I was a boy.”_

“ _And yet you betrayed her.”_

_He spoke again in the strange way, and Sansa responded, her voice as cold as winter ice itself. He felt a sense of panic, but it was dull, distant, like a motion behind several heavy blankets._

“ _I loved you. More than anyone.”_

_If had control over this situation, he would have wretched at those words, almost feeling pride at his own revulsion at “his” own bullshit, but he did not. Instead he felt the mounting fear again._

“ _And yet you betrayed me.”_

_The fear redoubled then. The feeling of insulation against the fear seeming to get thinner with every heartbeat._

“ _When you brought me back to Winterfell, you told me there was no justice in the world, not unless we make it. Thank you for all your many lessons Lord Baelish.”_

_Sansa said looking over, and Petyr realised he saw what was Arya Stark then. The mounting fear at this point was no longer feeling removed, but very close and very real._

“ _I’ll never forget them.”_

_Arya walked towards him then and his eyes darted from her back to Sansa._

“ _Sansa” he managed to just about whisper and then Arya’s hand blurred, and he felt pain rip open across his throat. He raised a hand upwards to feel the hot liquid coming from it, and as he did he tried to speak again, but nothing came out, instead he fell to the stones of the hall, and with a hand on his throat, blood running from between his fingertips, he found himself staring at himself again._

_And then he was staring down at the version of him that had just had his throat sliced open, and he felt his own hands clamp to his throat to stop the wound that wasn’t there._

“ _That was your fate.”_

_The voice came from behind him and he turned to see an old man stare at him, one who looked vaguely familiar to him._

“ _Or this was.”_

_And then he pushed Petyr hard in the chest and fell backwards, except he was standing. He was coated in heavy armour and had just stepped through to were Lord Arryn’s champion was to be waiting. If he could beat that champion, he would be alive at least an able to plan, and then-_

_Wait, what? What was going on? What the hell was any of this? THE FUCK WAS GOING ON?!_

_He felt the hand shove him from behind and he hit the water, and as he tried to panic in the heavy armour as the water of King’s Landing surrounded him, he felt his breath leave him. He stared up at the tantalisingly close surface, he needed to break through, he need to breath. His lungs were aflame, he was drowning, what the fuck was going on, he wasn’t really drowning was he? What? Everything around his eyes went dark, and when the dark receded, he was staring at himself, and then he was staring at himself again, and he breathed deeply._

“ _Or this was.”_

_His side exploded in pain as a sword ripped through him and he fell from the saddle, his guts falling out, he couldn’t move, the land from the saddle had dazed his body, or at least whatever was supposed to be able to move his body, and even if he could chances were that his hands holding his guts wouldn’t help. Then he felt something warm hit his face, and he looked up to see Sandor Clegane urinating on him, the part controlling him tried to struggle then, but it was too late, things going dark, and again he found his gutted body staring upwards at himself, and then he was staring downwards again._

“ _Or this was.”_

_On it went, a carnival of death. Each death gruesome and painful, each one ending with him returning to the Godswood having felt every last part of it and then being back in himself. Hanging. Burning. Flaying. The Moongate. Beheading. A particularly large and angry goat. All of them came, all of them hurt him, and all of them seemed to last a lifetime. Finally he found himself back again, staring at the edge of the creek in the Winterfell Godswood, having drowned yet again, and he leaned forward on his hands and knees and stared into the water. He didn’t have the stomach to be fearful of the water, he couldn’t allow his mind to fully give into the fear anymore, he was simply too exhausted and tired of fear to feel anything._

“ _All these are what you are supposed to have happen to you. And yet, you have changed things you should not have been able to. Speak, or it shall continue.”_

 _He stared into the water some more, at his own reflection, and he wasn’t sure if it was his mind playing tricks on him, if he had finally cracked from all the deaths, but he saw something strange about his reflection. The eyepatch was on the wrong eye. With that, for a second, he was staring_ up _at himself, through the water, and while it brought on a brief spike of the previous headaches, it was gone as quickly. Then he was staring_ down _at his reflection again, and it did something strange, it_ winked. _And then his reflection held something up to him._

“ _Speak, Littlefinger.”_

_The other entity spoke again, but Petyr didn’t care, he reached his hand into the water then and felt it grasp on the neck of the item offered up to him._

“ _If your mind is so broken, then I have no use for you.” He heard a footstep come from behind him, and he turned his body slightly to look at the other figure. He was garbed all in black, and something familiar about him was nagging at him, but as he stared at him, he raised his hand back out of the water, gripping something solid, and the other man’s eyes darted to it._

“ _That cannot be.”_

_There was, for just a second a moment of doubt in the voice of his tormentor and torturer. And Petyr felt a manic smile on his face._

“ _Oh but it is. You want to know who I am? I’m Petyr Baelish, you want Littlefinger? Then you should have checked to make sure we were alone.”_

_And he strummed the strings of the guitar, the tune to be played coming almost unnaturally to his mind, and plucked as the other man stepped towards him, only to be stopped due to one of the corpses grabbing his ankle. He looked down at the corpse, made a motion and it let go, only for another one to do the same, and he stared at Petyr._

“Let me tell you a story to chill the bones,

About a thing that I saw”

 _He sang as around him, the dead bodies started to do something, they started to_ move _._

“One night wandering in the Everglades,

I’d one drink but no more.”

“ _SILENCE” the other man yelled as the corpses around him stopped and Petyr found the breath gone from his very lungs, vines began to surround him and the guitar he had held was flung from him._

“ _You will explain this trick to me Littlefinger or I’ll-”_

“I was rambling, enjoying the bright moonlight,

Gazing up at the stars.”

_The other man stared hard at him as the song lyrics came, not from Petyr now though, but from behind him, where the guitar had landed and was now being held by one of the corpses as another sang._

“Not aware of a presence, so near to me,

Watching my every move.”

_The vines went from around Petyr and the man made a motion then, but as swiftly as the motion was made and the corpses fell like ragdolls, the sounds came from another direction, this time two guitars and one voice._

“Feeling scared, I fell to my knees,

As something rushed me from the trees.”

_The voice came now from the darkness outside of the scant light of the Godswood, and the other man had stopped moving now, instead scanning his head to look for the source of the voice._

“Took me to an unholy place,

And that is where I fell from Grace.”

_A dim light was starting to poke in from the darkness, and Petyr could only stare at it and hope and pray that what he thought was happening was happening. Around him more of the corpses had started to move again, and the ones that had arrived with weapons hacked at the vines around him as they gripped at the other man who seemed to have given up resistance._

“Then they summoned me over with them,

To the Dance of the Dead”

_He and the other man were carried towards the light that showed a bonfire. A bonfire encircled by the corpses. The voice growing louder and the music coming with it._

“Into the circle of fire I followed them,

Into the middle I was led.”

_The various corpses that had been carrying him dumped him then on his feet beside the other man who he looked at, and he smiled._

“ _You wanted to see the changes? You wanted to see why?”_

_The voice that spoke was Petyr’s, but it came from a version of him within the flames itself, as all the while all the others of him surrounded and sang or played._

“As if time had stood still,

I was numb with fear,

But still I wanted to go.”

_Petyr took a step into the bonfire to beside the other version of himself. It was simply him, but with the eyepatch on the other eye and the goatee, of course, grown in. He smiled at his other version and then turned back behind him and held a hand out to the other man._

“And the blaze of the fire did no hurt upon me,

As I walked onto the coals”

“ _Come and see.”_

***

There were few things in this world liable to wake a man from a fitful sleep as a sharp poke to the cheek. Typically, Petyr did not react well to being woken from his sleep, during a peace time he could enjoy it, now a days it was simply a finite resource that was forever on the edge of depletion. One good thing he had though, whichever member of the Royal Army that had just done this was going to be in for latrine duty between now and whenever he could talk some sense into Stannis. However his thoughts came together with sparkling clarity when he saw what had poked him in the cheek was small, black, and covered in feathers.

“Oh, _you_.”

There was no warmth or joy in his voice as he spoke the recognition at the Raven that was now staring at him. It seemed to shuffle a bit on the bit and hopped over towards where Petyr’s boots were sitting beside the breastplate and cloak. It started to poke at them then.

“And why should I do that?”

The Raven gave him a look then that, in so far as a bird could manage, basically said “bitch please.” And Petyr considered simply rolling over and doing his best impression of a Poe character. But he knew that while he could ignore the bastard that was in the driving seat of the Raven a lot, there were times when he had to give in. Last time he hadn’t the fucker had basically dragged him by the scruff of his neck, and that was not a pleasant experience he wished to repeat anytime soon.

“Fine, fine. I’m guessing you want just me? Or should I go rustle up a couple hundred men and tell them to follow me because a bird said so?”

The Raven didn’t deem to respond to him then, simply hopping over to towards the slight lift in the tents flap that had let him in and waiting. Grumbling to himself about how tasty a Raven shish-kebab would taste, Petyr stomped his feet into his boots, girded his sword onto his hip, tightened his breastplate on, god’s but he was going to need to get a proper set of armour now, and finally draped the brown cloak of the Royal Army over his shoulders.

***

There were times, when life seemed very cliché. There were many and sundry times he could list, but even they would pale in comparison to his current situation, being as he was walking in the pre-dawn morning on a misty island that was the centre of an ancient religion steeped in blood and misery. It was enough to make him feel almost giddy, and he allowed a brief snicker out of himself, one that seemed to irritate his companion.

“Caw” the Raven said, turning to stare at him from the branch it was sitting on. Even though it was a bird, it still managed to sound displeased and annoyed, which suited Petyr fine as he gave it the middle finger and kept on walking down the path the bird had started leading him on.

“Oh now you feel like talking? Well fuck you too.”

Pointedly ignoring the bird as he walked on he resolved his mind to instead try and actually enjoy the simple pleasures of the morning walk. He made it about a few hundred more metres before the monotony of the walk started to irritate him and he turned to stare at where the bird had flown ahead and was waiting. He smiled then, if a laugh was enough to piss the bird off before, then he was about to really annoy it.

“ _In the merry month of June from my home I started_

_Left the girls of Tuam nearly broken-hearted_

_Saluted Father dear, kissed my darlin' Mother_

_Drank a pint of beer my grief and tears to smother_

_Then off to reap the corn, and leave where I was born_

_I cut a stout blackthorn to banish ghost and goblin,_

_brand new pair of brogues I rattled o'er the bogs_

_And frightened all the dogs on the rocky road to Dublin,_

_One, two, three, four five._ ”

The bird didn’t respond to him as he continued to walk along to the song, but he could almost feel the withering intent behind the stare it gave him. He was about to let fly with the second verse when he saw movement ahead and moved his sword from the rest position flat on his shoulder to a more general guard position. He knew the missions he was here for were bound to attract attention, and he would be foolish to be unarmed.

“You” the figure said as it came forward, resolving itself into the shaggy shape of an Ironborn man, decorated in seaweed and pieces of driftwood “ _you_ of all Greenlanders are not welcome here.”

“And why is that priest? I can think of so many reasons that narrowing them down is difficult.”

“My God know’s you now Lord Baelish, you who would send his sons burning in torment to him! The Storm God alone would be the only one to offer such insult!”

Petyr felt a grin break out across his face.

“The last Ironborn who said something like that to me got about a dozen odd crossbow bolts to the chest for his troubles, and setting that up took a bit of doing. And for that sin I am already making payment priest, I would ask you to stand aside, but we both know you will not, and I do not have any crossbowmen with me, just this” he said raising his sword “and _him_ ” he said nodding towards the raven.

The priests eyes went to the Raven then, and if he was shocked to see Petyr motion to it, he was doubtless even more shocked when the bird collided with him, forcing him to drop a knife and flail to try and fend off the bird. This suited Petyr fine as he took a few quick steps forward and brought his sabre down in a cut that sent the priest sprawling to the ground. He took a quick look to see the priest was still living, but dying slowly, and sighing, stabbed the tip of the sword through what would have been the man’s heart.

“Too good for you and your kind, but he who fights monsters and all that.”

“Caw.”

“Oh you are _far_ past the point of heeding those words. Now, if you’d get a fucking move on so I might be able to salvage something from this miserable morning?”

He said motioning generally in the direction he had been travelling as he cleaned the priest’s blood off his sword with a cloth as he continued on his way, sword returning to its place on his shoulder as he walked. He didn’t know for certain, of course, but he was taking it for granted that he was now alone, following the caws of the Raven, and as he walked he tried not to let his thoughts dwell not on the priest’s words, but what Euron Greyjoy had said. _Somehow_ the cat was out of the bag regarding him, or at least it had been with him, however Petyr was hoping that had been an isolated incident, not that he really believed that was the case, not in a world that involved magic. Speaking of which...

“CAW CAW CAW” the Raven was on the ground near what, to Petyr, looked like the largest whalebones he had ever seen. They were on the ground, near enough to the water to show where the creature that had carried them could have been beached.

“Ah” Petyr said then “so these would be Nagga’s Bones I take it?”

The Raven didn’t respond, just stared at him.

“Well I would have thought, considering what little I have to work with, you would be happy to see them? After all Raven’s being a symbol of the “Storm God” or whatever bullshit this lot spewed?”

The Raven continued to just stare at him, and then did a very un-corvid like gesture by holding up one wing as if it was pointing.

“Caw.”

“Is this going to be like last time?”

It continued its unnatural movements by nodding, and Petyr sighed.

“I really, fucking hated last time. Are you going to be a total dick this time as well?”

The Raven capped off the hat-trick of “I’m not really a normal Raven” movements then with a negative head shake.

“Alright then, see you in a moment.” Petyr said as he peeled the thick leather glove off his left hand and, with some trepidation placed it on the nearest bone.

“Huh, this isn’t so ba-” he started to say when he felt his eye burst into a stinging pain and felt his consciousness leave his body entirely.

***

“-d, fuck.”

The last part was accompanied by him raising both his hands to his head and rubbing the part that was now _very_ sore. It took him a few moments and a bit of hopping between his feet to get the feeling under control, and once he did he hissed a tense breath through his teeth and looked at his surroundings. Much like it had been in Winterfell, where he stood now was a darkened version of where he had been standing just moments before. Unlike the last time, there was no mist or fog in the distance, just a storm was raging in the seas nearby and the waves were lapping up towards the edge of the island.

“That’s different all right. Now where are you Three-Eye?”

He looked around for the old bollocks that existed to do nothing but make his life miserable, but instead of seeing him he heard a screeching, howling noise from the sea and turned his attention back to that, and as he did he felt the breath leave him and had to fight the urge to drop to his knees.

He had assumed that Nagga had simply been a whale that had beached itself, now he was having second thoughts as the broiling water before him revealed a creature of fins and a long snake like body. Silvery skin was shown in flashes of lightning and the creatures face contained two large yellow eyes that stared with anger and he saw a flash of teeth that were not simply a couple of rows, but a veritable field of teeth stretching back through its mouth and promising destruction to anything that approached them. Then, it unleashed a single breath of a flame before seeming to disregard him and go under the water.

“A majestic creature in its own right, don’t you think?”

The voice came from beside him and he hoped he didn’t actually jump and simply imagined it as he turned to see the man who simply called himself the Three-Eyed Raven standing beside him, watching out where the sea-dragon had disappeared back under the waves. It took Petyr a few moments to find his voice, and even when he did he was acutely aware of how pathetic and shaky it sounded to him.

“Terror can be majestic in its own ways I suppose. Is this why you dragged me out here, so I could see _that_?”

The other man smiled slightly, and then turned to stare at him for a long moment before speaking again.

“No, although I will admit watching the reaction of others to the full majesty of it and other such creatures is always entertaining. No, I dragged you out here so we could talk. Somewhere away from prying eyes.”

Petyr was _pretty_ sure he imagined the cold breeze that came from the north at that moment.

“Oh, and what’s that about then? Going to tell me how the future is going to turn out?”

The other man gave him a look then that looked _very_ irritated.

“You are aware that I can not. Whatever _you_ are, or more whatever it was that _sent_ you here has made it hard to see anything with any reliability. And too much of what is to come is obfuscated by your actions.”

“Then what use to me are you?”

There was a rumbling then, it wasn’t the sound of the thunder, it was more than that. The previous thunder had been like the popping of a champagne cork to _this_ noise’s cannon. Petyr clamped his hands to his ears and he saw even the Three-Eyed Raven winced in pain at it, and as quickly as it started, it was gone.

“Ok” Petyr said, looking upwards “I get the message. Your bosses” he said looking at Three-Eyed “are jerks.”

“They are harsh, and they want us working together. But yes, they are indeed “jerks”.”

Petyr could practically hear the quotation marks and then the Three-Eyed Raven coughed into his hand before he spoke again.

“Essentially, I wished to thank you, and give you some guidance.”

Petyr felt a deep scowl on his face then and his hand gripped for a sword he didn’t have.

“Last time you gave me some “guidance” it led me to the most emotionally draining experience in my life.”

“And yet you take joy from it, don’t you?”

Petyr said nothing, simply gritted his teeth and nodded jerkily.

“Get on with it.”

“Very well. Euron Greyjoy was, to put it simply, a flawed vessel. One who was _supposed_ to serve as a replacement for me but was flawed in the making. Considering you’ve made the other one of this half-century that would serve such a purpose unusable to me as well, I must thank you for cleaning up this issue.”

“He was a “flawed replacement”?”

“Oh yes. Driven mad by the revelations and the abilities that come with them, naturally it happens to typically every nine in ten, and considering getting ten such individuals in a century is a rarity, it is an annoying, but expected outcome.”

“Is that how he knew that I am, well, what I am?”

The Three-Eyed Raven rolled his eyes.

“Egotist aren’t you? Yes. To anyone with the right abilities, you stick out like a black cloud on a bright summer’s day. He may not have been able to see all the details, but he could probably see enough. Especially after I had been “pushing” him for the last few days.”

“You had what?”

“He had a purpose, and it looked like he was not going to serve it. As such I took steps to make sure he did.”

Petyr stared at him then and debated the merit of the fruitless action of punching him, it would make him feel better even if it would do nothing else. He had been in a position when the Three-Eyed Raven had been inside his head, controlled his actions, had tried to _break_ him, even to Euron Greyjoy he wouldn’t wish that upon him.

“What was this “purpose”?”

“To help forge a weapon, one that I saw it would be wise to see you receive. Maybe it will help, maybe it will not, but at the very least it will be worth the attempt, provided you can use it.”

They stood there in silence then for a moment as Petyr waited, but it became clearer to him that whatever revelation he was waiting for was not coming.

“You couldn’t just tell me what it is?”

“I instrumented an entire insurrection and cast a mortal blow against a force that would be an ally of our great enemy. You can indulge me if I decide not to tell you.”

The ground underneath him shook then and he had to fight to keep his balance, he looked across and saw a fissure open up in the ground near the Three-Eyed Raven who let out a deep sigh then and held his hands up in surrender.

“ _Fine then_ ” he said, his voice dripping with displeasure “the weapon is here, and it is a mighty one indeed. Difficult to master, and even to simply use it well will take years of effort.”

There was no sign of immediate displeasure from powerful beings so Petyr scowled at the smug look that settled on the other man’s face.

“One day, when this is all over, you and I will have words.”

“Perhaps Baelish, or perhaps we will never speak again. Piece of advice though, duck from the fish.”

“Wha-“

***

“-t does that- oh never mind.”

He was standing back where he had been, left hand on the bones and he looked up at the noise of a raven flying away and scowled. He didn’t know how long he had been standing there, but if it was anything like the last time, it hopefully wouldn’t be too long. Instead he sighed and looked around. Not seeing any purple glowing swords, or an un-killable golem made of Valyrian steel kneeling in fealty before him, he sighed.

“Never make it easy do you? I have to get back to camp you know.”

He shook a fist in the direction that the bird had flown away in, and while an ultimately fruitless effort, it at least made him feel a little better. He sighed then and took another look at the bones that jutted out from the ground and tried not to think of the beast they had been in reality. Or at least, the version that whatever nebulous beings were underwriting the Three-Eyed Raven’s actions _wanted_ him to think was reality anyway. Though he did have to wonder, what the hell had happened to the creatures skull?

***

His walk back towards the camp of the Royal Army was, thankfully, uneventful. The only other body he saw on the way was a corpse that he himself had created and had not magically disappeared, which was reassuring honestly, last thing he needed was either witnesses or zombies. So it meant that he was in an honestly good mood as dawn broke and he strolled towards the entrance of the camp and was able to walk right past the guard watching that entrance. The fact he was in a good mode was actually a very good thing, it meant that the absolutely poor son of a bitch that was guarding that entrance was about to have only a mildly bad day as opposed to the hell that Petyr could have unleashed.

“Soldier” Petyr said, simply stopping in place after he had passed the younger guardsman “are you blind or incompetent?”

The younger man started, and Petyr had to fight the sudden evil grin that he wanted to let out at the other man’s reaction. This was going to be _fun_.

“Sorry my lord?”

“Well, either you have decided that my order to challenge anyone who tries to come through the entrance doesn’t apply to someone who resembles that dashing rogue Petyr Baelish. Or you are blind and simply didn’t see me walk past you. Which is it Bronn?”

Petyr could not be certain, after all there was possibly a decade between then and now, but he was convinced by more than one action that this particular Bronn was, indeed, the Bronn that in the future would have been the living embodiment of the term “combat pragmatism” in Westeros. The main action that had tipped him of was that Bronn had been he had been one of the crossbowmen Petyr had gotten to follow him at Pyke and had been the one to cut off Euron Greyjoy’s head for the promised bounty.

Of course, the signs that this was an early version were evident as he apparently had not thought of the amount of sheer jealousy such an act would inspire. That, oddly, had been the first issue Petyr had needed to deal with in his current, and hopefully temporary position as Commander of the Royal Army. His solution had been to take the head, underwrite the value, which had been determined on a scales in a presence of no less a personage than Stannis himself, and distribute the value to each member of the Royal Army who had been on Pyke. It was still a nice bonus for those soldiers, but Bronn had been disappointed. That none of his fellows were trying to slip a knife between his ribs and “acquire” the head for themselves was not something he seemed to have realised yet, and his somewhat sullen behaviour was getting him stuck with a lot of terrible jobs, such as night guard duty.

“I don’t know my lord.”

He eventually managed to say, and even Bronn’s own face seemed to say he thought it was a weak answer, and so Petyr let out a dramatic sigh and rubbed his face with one hand before he spoke.

“What will we do with you soldier? Clearly you are not getting with the program and that just simply will not do at this point.”

The confusion on the other man’s face meant that Petyr had probably slipped up with his use of terms, but he didn’t care at this moment, he was having too much fun, and he cupped a hand under his chin to help steady his face from smiling too hard. Instead he took a moment, tried to put on a thoughtful expression, and then nodded.

“Right then. I will graciously skip over the part where you obviously also failed to see me _leave_ the camp earlier, no point in adding insult to injury is there? Instead I know exactly what your punishment will be. A team will be getting sent out later to follow his Grace’s instructions with regards to the symbols of the Ironborn religion, you will be joining that team and carrying a maul to help with the destruction of the bones. If I hear so much as a peep about you being insubordinate, I will have to revisit the punishments available, any questions?”

Bronn’s face had fallen at this point, he was probably quite tired and Petyr was now sending him out on a hard labour job, but even then he held up one hand slowly and Petyr cocked an eyebrow and nodded.

“My lord, what does “insubordinate” mean?”

***

It took a week for the actions on Old Wyk to finally resolve themselves. There was not much of a crowd of locals that had gathered to see the final remains of Nagga’s bones either broken down or simply rolled back into the sea. Those that did were former “thralls” and “salt-wives”, slaves to put it bluntly, and Petyr’s approach to their former masters had simply involved taking the former slaves to one side, giving them clubs, and making sure their former masters were unarmed. Cruel, he knew, but this was Westeros, and while a part of him would rather have made it quick and clean as he did the Drowned Priest, he knew that if he didn’t allow these poor people to feel like they had defeated the evil, it would live in their minds forever. He also knew there were some noblemen who treated their own people as little better than the Ironborn had these folks, but he wasn’t one of them, and those people would need to pray he never got an opportunity to bring down hell upon them.

Chunks of Nagga’s bones had been taken as trinkets by the soldiers who had carried out the demolition work. Petyr had snagged a few pieces too himself, but there had been no crash of thunder, no glowing energy, no anything to signify that they were anything more than what they appeared, chunks of bone. So the Royal Army had loaded up and departed from Old Wyk with little ceremony and shipped back to Pyke where the siege was still ongoing. And after a very quick debriefing to Stannis, and Stannis not broaching the subject of Petyr’s current position and instead moving on to focus on the siege-works, Petyr was forced to accept that he would probably have to wait until after all this was done before he could hope to get the King to realise that sticking Petyr in charge of the Royal Army was a seriously bad idea.

He was trying to figure out the best ways to broach the topic without offending Stannis, while outside the main camp in a quiet area, when the first blow hit him hard in the back of his head.

He didn’t black out straight away, but he was definitely seeing stars and was sure a concussion was coming, but those thoughts were secondary, his hand went for his sword as his balance wobbled and then he was hit again, hard in the lower back and sent sprawling. He tried to turn the fall into a roll and to face his attacker, but a strong kick to his arm that was still trying to draw his sword meant his attention was distracted. Then came another hard blow to the chest this time, breastplate or not it still hit hard and Petyr tried to look up at his attacker, but a narrow miss made him drop his face. He didn’t quite go into a full foetal position, but his attacker had his options limited and while he tried for the stiletto dagger inside his boot, he felt cold steel on his throat, and froze.

“And thus ends the life of _brave Lord Baelish_ and his heroic bullshit.”

The voice was a combination of sarcasm, anger, pain and disappointment, but all those tones were of secondary importance to Petyr as he recognized the speaker.

“Brynden?” He tried to say it confidently, but even his own ego failed to make it sound like anything but a strained croak to his own ears.

“Cut down because he tried some dumb fool action and didn’t realise that the real world has _consequences_.”

The last word was emphasised with a strong kick to Petyr’s breastplate that hurt.

“How many times boy? How many _fucking_ times did I try to drill that into your head? I had _hoped_ that you were smarter than my nephew. That you would actually learn the lessons. Brandon Stark split you up the middle, Arthur Dayne took your eye, and yet you still cling to this suicidal heroic streak?”

There was more pain than anything else in Brynden’s voice then, and Petyr managed to squint up at him to see that more than anything else, the Blackfish’s face was a medley of pain and worry.

“I have no children Petyr” he said, more softly now “I have only my nieces, my nephews and for all my sins, _you_. I’m proud of the man you have become, but for the love of the Gods, I don’t want to see you dying because you thought you were the hero of some tale. I mean saving the King’s life, in a pitched battle? Do you know how easily you could have died?”

Petyr just stared up at him then, his pains starting to become dull aches more than anything else, and he could feel his own heart breaking. There were a lot of things he had tried to come to terms with in his life, but a lack of family was a hard one. Oh he had Pol, and to a lesser extent the various people who made up his household staff, but that wasn’t the same to a man who had spent over two decades living closely with his family. His time in another world was just as much a part of him as any other experience in this one, and he knew that it was the memories of Littlefinger that bled into his own experiences to make him feel as he did when it came to the Blackfish. He regarded him as nothing short of a father, and to see a man he held in such a place of esteem in such a state was hurting more than anything else.

“I understand” he managed to say after a moment, his own voice shaky as he spoke “I was not trying to do anything heroic Brynden, I swear. The circumstances however, there was no other choice. The various men in charge of the Army had no idea what to do other than land, they would have hesitated, and Gods but I needed to act then and there.”

Brynden didn’t look any less intense at that explanation, but he did offer Petyr a hand back to his feet, and feeling only a little uneasy standing up, Petyr turned to look at him again.

“But that’s it. I’m done with those sort of things. Stannis wants me to command the Royal Army, but I’ll find a way to tell him no. Then I’ll go back home to Gulltown, raise my daughter, try to find a way to get Jon Arryn to not sic some poor young woman on me and never again approach heroics in anything but the most distant way possible.”

Brynden looked at him then, and nodded slowly. Petyr had not _quite_ thought his plan for his next actions through, but what he said was roughly what he was planning. Figuring out a way to weasel out of the ever approaching deadline from Jon Arryn was a hard thought exercise, and outside of emptying the vaults, totally depriving Gulltown, and fleeing down to the Summer Isles to spend the rest of his days as a pirate king, he didn’t have anything concrete yet. But that was not important right now, what was was that Brynden was here, he still seemed in pain, and gods help him, Petyr wanted to do something to alleviate that, so he looked at Brynden and allowed a slight smile on his face.

“Speaking of my daughter” he said then, the words coming slowly and his smile growing “you owe me a visit after all this. I’ve been filling her head with stories of “The Great Blackfish” and either you come visit her in Gulltown, or I’ll send her up to visit Lysa with strict instructions to torment you with questions. Lysa will like that, she probably remembers doing that to you when she was Pol’s age.”

He wouldn’t actually do that, sending Pol up to the Eyrie, even if he trusted that Lysa would be perfectly polite and kind to her, was not something he would want to do. But Brynden didn’t know that, and the thought of his daughter following the older man around and constantly pestering him _was_ entertaining. A smile broke out across Brynden’s face then.

“Oh yes, Lysa had a question about everything at about what, seven, eight? I’ll make a deal to you, you survive the rest of this with no heroics, and I’ll visit the young girl and tell her _only_ the most embarrassing stories about some little shit we called the “Mockingbird.””

Petyr’s own smile only doubled, and he held a hand out to Brynden then.

“Deal.”

***

“Sieges, fundamentally, are boring affairs. They consist almost entirely of sitting around waiting for the other side either to starve, or to do something. That is why, typically, when something does happen it is a cause of much fascination.”

It had been three days since he had his “vigorous” conversation with Brynden, and the siege was ongoing which meant that Petyr was bored. He was involved in a siege and well, as he had just said, they were boring affairs, the Royal Army, by being the smallest group going currently, was the least involved in all this stuff, and so there was only so many things he had needed to oversee. This left him with time on his hands, and with nothing else to do, he had succumbed to his lesser demons and was, again, writing. The book this time was, unimaginatively, being called “Notes on the Ironborn Campaign”, as rather than mess with a proven pompous formula, Petyr was continuing on down the “Notes of” series with the rock solid hope there would be no third book.

He also, had found a way to alleviate that boredom somewhat, that was by making someone else miserable. Or in this case, _two_ people miserable, and so he turned to the first victim of his torture.

“Allard? If you would please?”

Allard Seaworth, former “seasquire” and now simply “squire” of Petyr Baelish handed the piece of paper over with only a mild amount of trepidation, which either meant he was feeling more confident or he had totally resigned himself to his fate. Either way, the young man was getting a crash course in his letters and writing, and while he wasn’t the worst at the reading part, thanks in part to his mother’s insistence after Davos had gone up in the world a fair amount, his writing left much to be desired. So instead of being a kind and loving master and simply teaching him to write easy words, Petyr was having him learn through dictation.

“Better Allard, but there is no “x” in fascination, nor does “happen” have a second “n”. Shockingly, you spelt fundamentally without any mistakes, much better. Now then, Bronn.”

Allard looked almost thrilled, but in comparison Bronn looked like he would rather be up to his armpits in latrine duty. Petyr had finally found the one method of actually getting his actions through Bronn’s skull, and it turned out the old school-master trick of “writing lines” was to Bronn what, to most people, would be thumbscrew torture.

“Let’s see here. “Sieges” is not spelt “sea-eggs”, though an admirable attempt. I’m going to simply skip over your try at “fundamentally” but you did manage to write “boring” correctly. As for the rest, well, it is getting _better_ Bronn. Not at the proper level by a league, but definitely better.”

He could have chastised the poor man some, probably easily made a remark that would make Allard take joy in the schadenfreude, but there were times for carrots, and there were times for rods, and right now was not a time for the rod. Besides, Bronn was not the only soldier in the Royal Army currently suffering through Petyr’s “enforced literacy” campaign. He was hoping that if he could leave a reasonably literate force behind him for the next poor bastard Stannis would put in charge, they at least wouldn’t need to summon Petyr back if everyone could understand rudimentary written orders. It helped that he had a pool of generally bored Maesters and others laying around outside the siege lines to press into service.

“Now, onto part two.” He cleared his throat then as both men took the pens back into their hands. “With regards to the siege at Pyke, the most quixotic proposition to alleviating the machinations of the veritable-”

He was interrupted mid-sentence by the sound of a polite but firm knock on the door to what was currently serving as his office. He took just a second to drink in the look of panic and relief that went across his two charges faces, and turned towards the door.

“Enter.” He called, and then looked back to the other two “Don’t get your hopes up too badly you two. Barring a breach being formed, we are going nowhere.”

Naturally, the man that entered was in Baratheon colours and sketched a quick bow to Petyr before speaking the magical words.

“My Lord, His Grace requires your presence as soon as possible, the Lannister forces have managed to breach the walls.”

He turned to look at the two now _smiling_ morons he had been dealing with and gave them a withering stare.

“Well? What the fuck are you two waiting for, the Mother to come down and tuck in your britches? Get your shit together you are coming with me.”

The two looked at him for a second, and then scrambled to get their hands on equipment, streaming out of the room past the Baratheon soldier in the process. Petyr sighed as they went past and then looked at the soldier with a slight grin as he picked up his breastplate.

“Tell me, is today still the third or the fourth week of the siege?”

“The third my lord.”

Petyr forced his grin to become a brittle thing then and stopped his motions deliberately as he stared at the soldier.

“What’s your name man?”

“Robb my lord.”

“Well Robb, let me share some _very_ expensive wisdom with you. Never bet how long a siege will take with Prince Oberyn. I’m going to owe him a bloody ton of stags now.”

With that Petyr finished affixing his breastplate, girded on his sword, and stepped past the soldier to the sights of both Allard and Bronn scrambling with their gear.

“Gods, but did you go all the way to the Street of Steel to get that shit? Allard, standard rules apply when dealing with His Grace, explain them to Bronn and if _either_ of you give me a reason to feel even _slightly_ ashamed, I’ll have you both shipped off to Oldtown with instructions to not be allowed to leave until you’ve forged your chains. Understood?”

They both nodded at him, and satisfied that he had re-established his position in their minds as a person to be feared and obeyed, he turned back to the Baratheon soldier and made a general “shooing” motion with his hands.

“Well lead on then, we mustn’t keep His Grace waiting.”

***

It didn’t take too long for Petyr and his companions to reach the structure that was serving as Stannis’s own command tent. It was a squat, rough building made out of the remains of a few buildings that had suffered damage during the earlier battles. A group of siege engineers had thrown it together with admirable haste, simply because Stannis had wanted it done. Petyr understood that most other nobles had been bemused by this action, but considering most of them were in tents when the first heavy rainstorm hit, he had instead decided they were probably jealous at this stage. Some had started to quarter themselves in the meagre dwellings that had been abandoned or housed various slaves, but had run straight into Stannis who had decreed that the various former Ironborn slaves were not to be mistreated in any way. Petyr had his current residence by the simple expedient of _paying_ for it, and that with it serving as the headquarters of the Royal Army, no other nobles were allowed to try and mess with it, simply because doing so would be on par with trying to mess with Stannis, and no one wanted to be the one dumb enough to do that right now.

That he was polite, courteous and had threatened the worst punishments he could imagine upon the men under his command if they were anything less than the same to the people who now owned the residence, also meant that the woman who lived there had been perfectly willing to actually cook and clean for him as well. Her husband still gave Petyr a hard look now and again, but he let it go, and the looks had dropped off in intensity when Petyr had politely, but forcefully, refused an attempt by their eldest daughter to provide him with “company”. The realities of the world he lived in, on occasion, made him ill to his stomach. And with that cheery thought, he was waved through the gathered men in to Stannis’s presence. Inside was a smattering of Lords, most prominently though being the Lord’s Paramount or their representatives who were in close conference with Stannis.

Stannis looked at the men around him and set his jaw as he spoke.

“My mind on the matter is set. We will do the honourable thing, as even they deserve that much, if that fails, then we will succumb to the bloody work. See to your men, prepare but hope they are not needed.”

The various lords, knowing a dismissal when they heard one, bowed their heads and withdrew with varying degrees of speed. Ned, upon seeing him as he turned, began to slow down to talk to Petyr, but before he could speak, Stannis spoke.

“Lord Baelish. A word.”

Petyr gave Ned an apologetic shrug, and got a simple nod in response, as he walked in the direction the other men had come from, and stood at the table near Stannis as the room emptied around them. Finally, when they were alone, Stannis spoke again.

“A breach has been forced into the walls of Pyke.”

“I was informed as such Your Grace.”

Stannis looked at him, and nodded.

“Yes, I instructed that you be informed of that. Well, with this breach in place my various lords have each come with their own opinions on the matter. Do you have one?”

Petyr looked at the King and spoke with a firm voice then.

“That doesn’t matter. You’ve made whatever decision you wish to make Your Grace, I serve.”

A bit over the top, but Stannis’s eyes veritably lit up with approval at Petyr’s choice of words. If Cersei Lannister had, terrifyingly enough, put some sort of image of Petyr into Stannis’s mind, then Petyr would play to that all he could so that when it came time to talk about Petyr’s future, the blow hopefully would get him enough time to escape.

“There are times I wish the others had your views Lord Baelish. You are correct, I have decided that even with Balon’s treason and actions, he and his people deserve the honourable option made available by the traditions of war. A breach has been formed, he deserves the opportunity to surrender peacefully and spare he, and his people, great bloodshed. Naturally, some of my lords feel I would be much better served just forcing the breach and assaulting.”

“That is what your brother would do Your Grace. However, last I checked you are not the sort of man, if you’ll forgive me, who needlessly attacks when a simpler alternative exists.”

No harm stroking Stannis’s ego a bit. He may not have the biggest complex in the world with regards to Robert, but there was still a bit of one there, and a little manipulation wouldn’t hurt anyone. And judging from the man’s own strong nod to himself, Petyr’s words had the desired effect.

“True. Robert would force the breach and damn the consequences or losses.” Stannis took a breath then, and after letting it go again looked at Petyr levelly “The reason I summoned you is that I will require an honour-guard as I go forward under a banner of peace to offer terms. I would like you to both be a part of said guard and to draw its members from the Royal Army.”

Petyr couldn’t quite keep the feeling of surprise from his face, and it must have shown as Stannis nodded and spoke again.

“Yes, I could have my Stormlanders do it, but this is going to involve some elements of posturing to it, and going forth surrounded by the forces _only_ loyal to Myself as King, as opposed to those who will be my brother’s armsmen in only a few years hence, will send a message. Also” Stannis said then, a slight smile on his face “the Royal Army has shown an ability to save me from Ironborn machinations before.”

‘And I’m paying for that decision every single day right now. Oh the things I do for a bit of stability.’ Petyr thought, but instead of saying it loud like a moron, he simply sketched a bow to Stannis.

“As you wish Your Grace.”

***

It didn’t take long to get together an honour-guard for Stannis, though the men chosen were hardly what any fair maiden would picture from a bard’s tale. They were, as a rule, a fairly rough sort as while the Royal Army wasn’t the Night’s Watch, it wasn’t exactly filled to the brim with the noble sons of houses. They were, at least, reasonably well equipped, and while some of their clothes may have obvious patches in them and their weaponry be, in some cases, a bit eclectic, the tools of their trade were well maintained, and if they _hadn’t_ been before, Petyr’s boredom had made damn sure they were by now. The only real “uniform” of the force was the simple brown cloaks, and he flanked Stannis wearing one such cloak and feeling _distinctly_ under armoured as on the other side of the King, Allard Seaworth carried a banner of the Seven on a poll.

Behind them, Ned, Oberyn, Denys Arryn, Jaime and Tywin Lannister, Mace Tyrell, Rodrik Harlaw as well as Brynden and Edmure Tully walked in a small group behind them, but they were here to observe. As the group approached the walls, no arrows were shot at them at least, but that didn’t lessen Petyr’s own feelings about this being a very _bad_ idea, especially having Rodrik Harlaw come with them. But he didn’t have a vote in the matter and finally the group came to a halt and Stannis nodded to him. With that signal, Petyr lifted the speaking trumpet he had brought up to his lips and began to speak.

“For the attention of Balon Greyjoy. His Grace, King Stannis of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, wishes to offer to him and his people the opportunity to discuss an honourable and peaceful surrender of the fortification of Pyke. He does so in the hope that no more blood than is necessary will be spilled.”

The response came from the walls of Pyke, and was pretty much what Petyr expected. The jeering began almost at once and Petyr let it go on for just a few minutes before he spoke louder again.

“For the attention of the _defenders_ of Pyke. His Grace, King Stannis of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, is offering a single opportunity of leniency. Any man who turns his back on Balon Greyjoy and abandons this current position will be allowed to disarm himself, and leave this battlefield unmolested. Any defender who does not wish to do this, will be, if he survives the coming conflict, sentenced to a lifetime of service with the Night’s Watch.”

The jeers died off slightly at that, which was good, as it meant that at least some of them were thinking. Petyr turned to look at Stannis then who, without taking his eyes off the defenders, nodded his head once and Petyr raised his lips for the third time.

“Furthermore, any defender who abandons Balon Greyjoy, will find that he and his family are allowed to retain any possessions or lands that they currently hold in full accordance with Royal law. Any defender who does not do so shall have their families possessions forfeit.”

There was a fair amount of silence after that, as the implications of the generous offer that Stannis was making to the defenders began to sink in, and Petyr raised the trumpet to his mouth one final time.

“This offer shall be available only for the duration of the next day, at which point any man found within Pyke will be viewed as having declined and shall be treated as an enemy combatant.”

The “enemy combatant” bit he threw in himself, but the sentiment was the same as what Stannis had explained on the way here, and, with that done, Stannis turned his back on Pyke and began to walk backwards. Miraculously, the Ironborn did not break the truce, but they did start up on the jeering again, and Petyr found he didn’t feel settled and calm again until they were firmly back outside of arrow shot.

“You have heard the proclamation my Lords” Stannis said then to the assembled commanders that had come along “any Ironborn man who takes my offer and surrenders himself and his arms across this next day is to be allowed to leave here unharmed.”

He was looking specifically at Tywin as he said that, and the Old Lion had the decency to nod and speak then.

“Of course your Grace. They will be treated exactly as you have decreed.”

Petyr didn’t doubt that the Old Lion would allow the Ironborn to leave the battlefield with no problems, and _then_ reap some vengeance, but Petyr found it somewhat hard to blame him. Luckily, the breach was being mainly guarded by Stormlanders so they at least would be the most likely to run into the men that would be _least_ likely to disregard Stannis’s orders and give into their violent tendencies.

***

In all, if two hundred men surrendered, it was that, but that would be two hundred less trying to kill him tomorrow, not that Petyr had _any_ intention of being the first in the breach. There was also the unexpected but probably stupidly clever revelation that one group of Ironborn had shown up with company. And at hearing his brother had been “liberated” by a group of Ironborn warriors who _very much_ wanted to live to see tomorrow, Jaime Lannister had torn off towards the front-lines while Tywin Lannisters response to his son’s deliverance had been to simply nod at the news and turn back to a discussion with Mace Tyrell.

It was the main excitement of the night, but Petyr managed to stay awake during it with an odd assortment of company.

“So I can expect the silver within the next month then Petyr?”

Oberyn’s voice couldn’t have sounded more smug if he tried, and despite his best efforts Petyr couldn’t help but smile in response.

“Next time I make a bet with you, remind me not to.”

“Oh but Petyr, where would be the fun in that? Besides, you know I’m willing to take payment in other more straight forward means?”

Despite himself, Petyr still felt himself slightly blush at that, but any attention that his falling into Oberyn “The Sex Terminator”’s obvious opening was lost in the face of the roaring laughter of the two other people he was currently sat with. Benjen Stark and Dacey Stark neé Mormont both, clearly, found that remark hilarious and Oberyn’s attention went back to them as he smiled at them both. For many of the various warriors, and especially the non-Northern Lords, Dacey’s presence was a weird thing, for Oberyn it was perfectly normal and Petyr hardly minded. Truth be told he was just happy to see Benjen with a wife that was keeping him happy and far _far_ away from The Wall. As such, the couple had wound up sitting with Petyr for company, and Oberyn had, naturally, shown up to start teasing Petyr.

“I would be careful with him Petyr” Dacry said then when her laughter died down “I’ve seen bears hunting that were less determined.”

“Dacey, Prince Oberyn and I have been playing this game for several years now, and frankly one of these days it is going to escalate until one of us gives in.”

Oberyn turned his attention back to Petyr then with a borderline predatory smile.

“Oh, is that a promise?”

“Who said I’d be the one giving in?”

“Oh, is that even _more_ of a promise?”

“You are incorrigible Oberyn. Whatever would Ellaria say?”

Oberyn leaned back on his seat then and gave Petyr a contemplative look then as he smiled.

“Oh she would be angry we didn’t share. Not the first time, but she does tend to get jealous when she isn’t at least consulted.”

Petyr mocked looking to the heavens in salvation then.

“Thus I am saved from ever having to worry.”

“Oh I wouldn’t say that, I asked her before I left.”

Petyr then buried his head into his arms on the rough table before him as the laughter of the two Starks redoubled, with Benjen pounding on the table top a couple of times.

“Fucking Lannisters” he said then from his muffled arms “If they could only have been a little bit terrible at siege warfare I wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“Says you Petyr” said Benjen then, “Prince Oberyn would doubtless have found some other way to allure you.”

“What can I say Lord Stark, I can be _very_ alluring when I wish to be.”

“That you can.”

 _That_ response came from Dacey and Petyr raised his head slightly from its position to see that the former Mormont woman was looking at Prince Oberyn intently while still holding Benjen’s hand. Benjen was _also_ staring closely and Petyr suddenly realised he was probably rather close to this conversation going from banter filled to potentially _very_ awkward. Flirting and firing salvoes with Oberyn was one thing, but he was getting a feeling that all this was shaping up to be a very different thing. Something he did not particularly wish to become a part of.

“Ehm.”

He started to say, before Oberyn, almost ignoring him, turned his attention to the Starks.

“Well, I do find I have a certain charm with people. And nothing in this world does tend to focus the mind quite like the prospect of dying in the morning.”

“Understandable” said Benjen then “after all what is the point in living if not to live?”

Benjen looked then between Dacey and Oberyn, before planting a kiss on his wife’s lips, all the while the pair of them looked between each other, and Oberyn. Suddenly feeling _very_ much out of place and uncomfortable at his surroundings, Petyr decided that subtly removing himself from the equation was not going to work.

“Right so” Petyr said, standing up “I am taking that as my cue to leave then. Things to do, people to oversee, all that sort of thing.”

Dacey looked at him then, and he saw for a second the same predatory look that Oberyn had.

“Oh, are you quite certain Lord Baelish? I mean if the setting is not much to your liking, I’m sure my husband and I, as well as Prince Oberyn I assume, would be _more_ than willing to move to somewhere more intimate. After all, we might all be dead tomorrow.”

At that, Petyr’s brain distinctly flipped a coin between “fight or flight” and he decided to make like a tree and leave, only _nearly_ tripping over his own feet as he did so. Needless to say, _that_ reaction drew another bout of uproarious laughter as he went.

***

As it turned out, Petyr did not get much sleep that night _anyway_ purely because of a lot of pent up nervous energy. What little he did was fitful and not particularly restful, but still he reported back in the morning and was informed, thankfully, that while the Royal Army would have to stand to, they would not be expected to go in with the first wave. A combined Reach and Northern force would be going in first, the order having been chosen by lots, and so Petyr instead found himself waiting nervously for news as, in the distance, the noise of battle raged. That the last time he had dealt with something like this had been among the dead and dying outside the Trident, was not a reassuring thought, and he had to resist the urge to go crawl into a bottle somewhere. Instead he was pacing as best he could among the Royal Army, as while they were a small force, a tenth of the total force that they were allowed to be, they were large enough for him to get lost in for the moment.

Right now he needed to get lost, to walk, to think, to do _anything_ but acknowledge the reality before him.

“My Lord?” said a voice and Petyr took a second to recognise that it was Bronn, and Petyr looked at him.

“Yes?”

“Begging your pardons and all that, but are you alright? You’ve paced the entire length of the camp six times now and, well, you’ve been muttering to yourself.”

Petyr blinked then, and looked from Bronn to look at the other members of the Royal Army, and saw that a lot of them were either slyly, or straight out staring at him.

“I see. I’m fine Bronn, just nervous.”

“Nervous?” Bronn said, and his voice was filled with incredulity and he spoke slightly louder “Lord Petyr Baelish is _nervous_? Again, begging your pardons, but you _are_ the same man who decided to roar at us lot into the middle of an ambush battle to save a King right? The same one who promised to, if I remember correctly, “Turn our skin into house leather” if we didn’t move quickly? The same man who broke into a city under siege to save a Princess and her children? That Lord Baelish?”

Petyr couldn’t help feeling his back stiffen at that then, and he realised something. Bronn wasn’t speaking to him, he was speaking to the Army. And Petyr suddenly knew he had to play along, lest his nervousness infect roughly another hundred and a half people. Allard had said that Petyr had exuded calm and confidence the whole time they fought the Ironborn, in reality he had been metaphorically shitting himself the whole time, but that Petyr’s demeanour had been what let him know they would be alright. He needed to step up, and now.

“Last I checked Bronn. Yes, yes I am.” He pitched his voice to the men around him as well now, and forced a smile as hard as he could. “And you know what? Fuck Balon Greyjoy.”

There was a couple of half-hearted cheers at that, but Petyr held his hands up for attention and silence then.

“No, seriously, who the ever loving fuck does he think he is? His people are what? Somewhat good at sailing, too proud to but their backs into actually working a miserable day in their lives and instead taking what they want by force? Fuck them. “We Do Not Sow” my miserable fucking arse, House Greyjoy is sowing right fucking now, they seemed to think that they could just take what they want, when they want, and no one would stop them? Fuck that. And I let them get into my head enough to make me nervous? Of all the things we’ve seen on these miserable God’s forgotten shitpiles of islands, that’s probably the first thing that has actually _insulted_ me. And God’s new and old, but I don’t like being fucking insulted. Gather arms, we are the _Royal fucking_ _Army_ and our King will give us the chance to teach these fucking squids a lesson.”

Churchill, it was not. But it got a large cheer and the men started to move then so Petyr actually felt much better. He did not particularly _want_ to be going into the breach, but he was sick of pacing and feeling useless, besides, if nothing else he could probably get this lot some position to go in with the order, and even as they got ready he started to make his way forward towards the walls of Pyke and where Stannis was currently situated.

“Lord Baelish” called a voice as he moved forwards, but he ignored it, he was going to see Stannis, and fuck any distractions.

“Lord Baelish!”

The voice called out again and Petyr turned annoyed at the source of the voice.

“Fucking what?”

It was a man in Stormlander garb who sketched a very quick bow and Petyr had to bite down a snarl and him over that.

“Apologies my Lord, but His Grace sent for you. The fortress is taken and he wants the Royal Army to secure the throne room.”

Petyr simply stared at the man, and his own surprise must have been noticed by those around him as the motion and movement that had started after his little profanity laden speech stopped as well. But once he noticed that, he turned to look at the nearest soldiers and let out a roar.

“YOU LOT, AND THE THEM AND THEM AS WELL, WITH FUCKING ME. THE REST OF YOU STAND TO. WELL WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU WAITING ON? WE HAVE AN ORDER, MOVE IT!”

The effect was like kicking over an ant-hill and Petyr almost despaired as any sort of order was lost in the scramble to make themselves ready. He spared a brief moment of pity for whatever poor fucker Stannis would have to get to command this lot after him, because it was going to take work. Either way, he shouted a few more orders and started to stomp off towards the now open gates of Pyke. His irritation only growing again.

***

As things worked out, securing the Throne Room was not a problem, any sort of armed resistance inside Pyke itself had ended a while ago, no he and the men under him were being used again by Stannis to make it be seen that they were being used. And Petyr barked out orders to make sure that every conceivable entrance and exit was covered by men in brown cloaks before he walked over and knelt on one knee before Stannis.

“You summoned us Your Grace?”

All other appearances aside, Petyr was irritable enough right now that he didn’t want anyone taking issue with his form, and properly highlighting he was serving Stannis would keep anyone from doing that. Though by the Gods he was hoping Edmure would say _something_.

“Lord Baelish. Have your men take command of the dungeons as well as the security of the prisoners detained there. After that, they are take over security of the wife and children of Balon, I believe that Lord Mormont currently is overseeing that duty?”

He asked that question of Ned who nodded, and Petyr took note, standing then and turning.

“Bronn, take a dozen men and see to keeping the Lady Greyjoy and her children safe.” He turned his look then to the nearest groups of Royal Army men and started pointing at the ones who looked the most dangerous, and after picking twenty of them spoke again.

“You lot, down to the dungeons, keep the prisoners under guard until his Grace has decided their fates. Go.”

The twenty men he had picked, as well as Bronn and his dozen sketched bows and left, leaving Petyr still in command of a large number of brown cloaked men in the hall that was serving as a throne room.

He disregarded the other men then to look back towards where Stannis was standing, a single hand resting on the throne that the room was built around. After a moment, the King turned towards the various Lords that were currently here.

“Lord Tywin, order your siege engineers to take hammers and stakes to this chair, I want it broken up and dumped into the ocean by the end of the day. Lord Baelish, have Lady Alyannys, her children, and Balon Greyjoy brought before me. My Lords Paramount, if you would have your various banner-lords summoned, they will witness Our judgment.”

***

It took longer to find, assemble and generally organize ever single Lord that was along for this expedition than it did for Petyr to get the Greyjoy family assembled and ready to be presented, as such he actually _apologized_ to Lady Alyannys for the delay, which got him no reaction but a very stern look. The child versions of Theon and Yara were clinging close to their mother, and Petyr was hoping that Stannis was not about to do something to those children that would require him to do the things he had promised the Blackfish he would stop doing. Instead of dwelling on that pleasant thought, he moved to beside Stannis to inform him that they were ready, and began to take a few steps away from the King to place himself normally at where he would be.

“Lord Baelish” Stannis said, firmly and raising his voice slightly so it would carry “you will remain standing here.”

Stannis indicated to his right and Petyr gulped as he obeyed. A simple chair had been brought up for Stannis as he refused to sit on the Ironborn’s own throne, and indeed the first of the Lannister engineers, former miners really, had already begun to bring their tools in for its destruction. But the hall had gone silent as Stannis spoke, and so he turned to Petyr and nodded.

The order of who would be presented first had already been worked out, the wife and children first, Balon second, and so when Petyr called for them to be brought forward, Lady Alyannys and her children were led before Stannis where they either bowed or curtsied.

“Lady Alyannys” Stannis spoke, no preamble and no warmth to his voice “as per an agreement struck with your brother the former lord Rodrick of Harlaw, his family is to be granted leniency for being coerced to act in support of Balon Greyjoy’s treacherous actions. As such, you are granted leave to take with you that which you may carry from this place to spend the rest of your days living on Harlaw.”

Alyannys stood then for a moment and then spoke, her voice firm.

“Anything that I may carry your Grace?”

“Yes.”

She then nodded, and turned to her children, and picked them both up. It took a bit of struggling as neither child was exactly a babe, but that she could do it at all was admirable, but then with both children she started to take a step.

“Enough.” Stannis said then, rising from his seat.

“I applaud your dedication to saving your own children” he said after a moment “but you are testing the limits of my patience, as you and I both know it can not be so simple a matter for the children of a traitor. I will swear to you though, as due to the Harlaw blood that flows in their veins, they will not be harmed.”

“No? Instead I am certain that the only two children I have left, the only two children that _bastard_ of a husband did not send to their deaths are to be used as some Greenlander pawns.”

Stannis’s face was starting to resemble a granite cliff, and Petyr was starting to feel worried.

“Lady Alyannys” Stannis said then, speaking slowly and firmly “this is my judgment. Your daughter, Yara, will be fostered to House of Eddard Stark, Lord-Paramount of the North, until such a time as she may be married to a suitable noble groom. She will never again carry the name of “Greyjoy”. Your son, Theon, is now, and _forever_ stripped of any title or claim that is based on these islands. He shall no longer have the name “Greyjoy” as the name will cease to exist. He will be fostered to a noble family of Our choosing, if any such family should take him. You are released to the custody of your brother, there will be no appealing this decision. Now leave with your children to prepare them for their future.”

She did not cry, did not make an exclamation, instead Lady Alyannys stood with a strong amount of grace and dignity, and holding her children’s hands in her own hands, withdrew from the hall, and as she went there was murmurings. Stannis held a hand up then, and the murmurings stopped as he prepared to speak.

“Bring forth Balon Greyjoy.”

Petyr turned to the soldiers guarding the direction that Balon was being detained at, and nodded, and after a few moments Balon Greyjoy was led forward, restricted in chains, and was made to kneel before Stannis by a quick application of a boot to the back of his knees. Petyr nodded a quick approval to the soldier that had done that.

“Balon Greyjoy” Stannis spoke “for your actions of treason and rebellion against Our authority, as well as the atrocities committed in your name against Our subjects, I sentence you to death.”

“I demand a trial by combat.”

Balon spoke the words with a low menace and there was a quick murmuring from the crowds, and before Stannis could speak, Petyr saw movement and did his best not to react as Jaime Lannister stood up.

“Your Grace, let me be your champion in this matter.”

The murmuring started again, and Stannis held up a hand for it to stop.

“That will not be necessary good-brother. Balon Greyjoy, as a rebellious man who proclaimed himself no longer bound to Our authority, you are not entitled to receive such a thing. Even if We were inclined to allow it to you, We would happily argue that you already received one, and that your champions have lost. No, there will be no debating your guilt, as it is known from Starfall to Skagos as to what sort of treasonous snake you are. You will die, and your method of execution will suit as base a creature as you are. You will be taken under armed guard from here to a gibbet, where you will be interned until you are dead. This gibbet will be located outside the Eyrie, so that even in your death you shall never again come close to the sea.”

Petyr had to fight to keep the surprise off his face as that punishment was not what he had expected. The “hanging in a cage outside the Arryn mountain fortress” part, not the “death” part, but he had to admit it had a certain amount of bloody mindedness to it that he could appreciate. Balon however, clearly didn’t as he tried to lurch forward and was caught by the chains before being struck over the back of the head. The soldier who did that, being the same one that had kicked out his knees, Petyr was going to quietly make sure that man got slipped a couple of stags for a job well done.

***

The following day of judgments had been, after the first two, almost anti-climactic. The only notable ones had been for Urrigon and Aeron Greyjoy, who both had been turned over to Tywin Lannister on a “Two brothers for the price of one” deal that Petyr did not strictly approve of, but there was nothing he could do about it even if he had wanted to. The other surrendered defenders had, in Stannis keeping to his word, simply been ordered to take the Black and their families deprived of any possessions. It had taken the next day for Stannis to continue his judgments, and they had been impressive ones, even if they hardly surprised him considering he had been paying attention to the man’s actions so far. The first had been the ordering of the destruction of _all_ symbols, sites and artefacts of the religion of the Drowned Gods with a summary death sentence to be put in place for any who chose to practice it. Any and all other religions would be invited to proselytize to the people of the Iron Isles, which in practice meant that there was probably going to be a large number of Septons sent this way.

The second had been the decree that Pyke, as well as Old Wyk and any other island who’s lord did not _immediately_ surrender and beg for forgiveness to Stannis were being handed over to the thralls that lived there. Harlaw was being excepted from this, but with the order that any and all thralls be released as freemen at once. This had sparked _some_ outrage among the various soldiers who had deserted Pyke to avail of Stannis “get to keep your stuff” offer, but Stannis had calmly informed them that they had agreed to abide by the Royal Law, and that was that. There would probably be trouble over it, but that would not be Petyr’s to deal with, as the governance of the Iron Isles had been drawn up.

Essentially, Rodrik of Harlaw would be serving as a quasi-governor of the Isles, basically it would be his duty to make sure that Stannis’s decrees were imposed, and that the islands continued to pay their taxes. To back him up, and to keep an eye on the islands in general, a single Riverlander and Westerlands noble was to be placed in command of garrison forces drawn from both of those realms. Rodrik would be entitled to command only two hundred men, any others would need to be drawn from those forces. If at any stage he was accused of being disloyal, those two nobles would have the power to arrest him, and present him before Stannis to make their case, and Petyr found the whole damned thing to be one hell of a messy solution, but those involved seemed somewhat satisfied. There had, following that, been the usual disputes and arguments about how to split the various captured items, wealth and other such, but Petyr had not bothered to pay any attention to it.

As it was, the news was finally coming in that the other Isles were surrendering to Stannis’s terms and the King had summoned him, and Petyr, feeling sure he knew _why_ was doing his best to steel himself for what promised to be an “interesting” conversation. He was ushered into Stannis presence with no real fuss and, thankfully, found that he was alone with the King. Stannis looked at him, and Petyr bowed.

“You asked to see me Your Grace?”

“Yes Lord Baelish I did. Take a seat please.”

Stannis motioned towards a chair opposite of the one he himself now sat in, and Petyr sat down, doing his best to keep himself calm and collected. If he did this right, he might even be able to leave here without Stannis taking any offence.

“Petyr, I asked for you to come here as there is an issue I feel we need to discuss.”

Stannis was using his first name, that was _something_ he had not done before, and Petyr found himself having to remain calm a bit harder. But given the opening, he decided he needed to take the initiative.

“Yes, your Grace. And I wish to say that while I am indeed honoured, I feel that you may not necessarily be making the best possible decision. After all I have achieved a lot in my current condition and changing that could cause a lot of disruption when I’m sure there are other, suitable men who could act just as well.”

Stannis looked at him then, and after a moment he did something terrifying. He _laughed._ Petyr did nothing but sit in silence as the King laughed, and he started to get the feeling that this conversation was going to not necessarily develop to his advantage.

“Gods, Petyr, what ever are you talking about?”

“Your Grace?”

“I am trying to speak to you about the issue of your marriage. Jon Arryn has tried to enlist my aid in finding you a suitable bride simply because every time he thinks he has one picked, you do some foolish thing like save your King from an ambush.”

Petyr couldn’t help the feeling of confusion that had come over him then, and when he spoke, he spoke slowly.

“I was talking about my appointment to the Royal Army, your Grace.”

Stannis’s expression settled more into something resembling his usual self and Petyr awaited for the man to speak.

“That is, understandable.”

Were not necessarily the words he had expected to hear, and Petyr blinked.

“Your Grace?”

“Jon Arryn has _also_ expressed some concerns over that appointment, mainly he fears what this may do to the economy of his own lands. However, my decision on that matter stands Petyr, and I will ask you to see things from my perspective. Soon, the Stormlands will have their own Lord in the form of my brother Renly, as such I can not continue to rely upon them for soldiers. The Royal Army entitled to me under the Lord’s Charter is a blessing in that regard, as it allows me a force that answers only to the Crown. However, so long as it is only a force that attracts the desperate, as it does now, it will mean nothing. I need someone to command it, someone who can elevate the opinions of it, someone who can make it seem to the nobility that having their third sons join the Royal Army is a better use than simply having them sit around collecting dust.”

Stannis’s expression took on a dark edge then.

“I _had_ been planning to offer it to Randyl Tarly when all this was done, Reachman or not, the man had a reputation. But then you went and did what you did when Euron Greyjoy pulled off his ambush. You have been known to be a man with superb organisational skills and shown a knack for leading forces in the field. You are young, yes, but you have a reputation that is already growing. You also have shown a willingness to do your duty, no matter what that is. If not for my brother, I’d have you as Master of Ships, instead I shall have you as Commander of the Royal Army. Not for the rest of your life, but for the next ten years at least, provided you give a satisfactory service.”

Petyr felt himself squirming then.

“Your Grace, I have so many commitments in Gulltown, and I do not simply mean the ones to Lord Arryn, but to the city itself. I can not simply abandon those duties.”

Stannis gave him a hard look then, and then simply nodded.

“That is true, and admirable. As I understand it, you are good at making deals Lord Baelish, make me an offer.”

Petyr blinked, again Stannis had surprised him, as he had not expected that the King would simply say _that_ of all things. A “yes” or “no” maybe, but to ask Petyr to essentially pitch him an offer? Fuck, he was going to need to think quickly.

“If, and if you will excuse me for asking, your Grace you are insistent on this matter?”

“I am.”

“Then may I propose the following? For eight months of the year, I will reside in King’s Landing, I will do all that you ask of me and even outside those eight months if you deem it necessary, I shall remain. For the other four months, I be allowed to reside in Gulltown. My ships are swift enough that if I am needed, I can be in King’s Landing inside two days, and it would allow me to still carry out my duties there.”

Stannis looked at him for a moment, almost looking through him, but Petyr tried to keep his expression neutral.

“Nine months in King’s Landing, three in Gulltown. I shall also allow you a year to set what affair you need in order.”

Petyr nodded. He really would have preferred the alternative, but he was not getting out of this without pissing off Stannis, and this was the least bad option he could see, besides, he did have another issue he was hoping to bring up and he might be able to levy the current discussion into that.

“There is something else your Grace.”

“Yes?”

“Well, I realise that it is probably very improper of me to do this, but I have a request.”

Stannis looked at him, and then nodded for him to continue.

“I would like my daughter legitimized. The circumstances of her birth belong in the past, and I do not wish her condemned for them. Polgara is all the family I have in this world, and I would desire nothing more than to be able to return home to her and let her know _that_ particular stain is gone from her.”

Stannis leaned back in his seat and turned his gaze away from Petyr and out a nearby window. He stayed like that for a minute, and then turned back to Petyr.

“Done. I shall have the documentation ready for when you arrive in King’s Landing in a year’s time. Polgara Stone will be Polgara Baelish in all ways that matter.”

Petyr smiled at the news, but he felt it freeze in place as Stannis raised a hand.

“However, there is a condition. I do not care if it is a milkmaid from the Reach, an exotic beauty from the Summer Isles or Selyse Florent, when you report to me in a year, you _will_ be married. Is this understood?”

The joy at getting the issue of Pol’s bastardy sorted out died at that proclamation. Petyr didn’t want to be married, ever. But now this was going to be the price he paid to make the other important person in his life happy, to give her the safety that only having his name truly could allow. Gods fucking dammit, now he would have to do it, and where the fuck would he even start on that?

“I understand your Grace.”

Was all he said, as he could say nothing else.

***

The fact that his position was now going to be, or at least in a year anyway, permanent meant that Petyr returned to the Royal Army camp in a frightful mood and determined to start whipping them into a shape he could actually be somewhat proud of. To start with, he did not need to worry about re-writing a whole table of organisation, no, instead he was going to have to fucking invent one in the first place. That was going to be a nightmare enough, as he was, essentially, going to have to “invent” a whole series of ranks and positions within the Royal Army so that it could be more strictly understood as to who answered to who, and consequentially, who got blamed for what when things fucked up. As such, he couldn’t _quite_ blame Allard for looking terrified when Petyr moved towards him with his sword in hand.

“Kneel.”

Allard looked panicked, and he looked towards Bronn who wisely was staying out of the whole ordeal.

“My Lord.”

“Fucking kneel Allard, I’m not doing this while you are standing.”

Hesitantly, Allard kneeled, and once he did, Petyr placed the flat of the sword on Allard’s right soldier.

“I’m in a shit mood so I am doing the abbreviated version. Allard Seaworth, in the name of the Gods, Old and New, I charge you to defend the defenceless, stand for the just no matter how hard, and act always with the best interests of your fellow man at heart. Stand, Ser Allard.”

His face filled with a mix of joy and confusion, Allard stood up before him, and Petyr couldn’t help but smile at the man’s joy as he put away his sword.

“Bronn, punch him for me please.”

Bronn, to his credit, didn’t hesitate, and punched Allard hard in the ribs.

“That part is important Ser Allard, it is so you never forget the pain that led to this moment. Now go on, go find your father and tell him the good news, you earned this.”

Allard, wincing slightly, left the room and Petyr looked at Bronn who was shaking his hand slightly, but smiling.

“Enjoy that Bronn?”

“Yes my Lord.”

“I wouldn’t. Striking a superior officer in the Royal Army is a flogging offence.”

Bronn’s smile disappeared at once and he started to look very worried.

“But you told me to my Lord.”

“Oh yes, I did. That’s why instead of a flogging, your punishment will be much worse.”

Bronn’s face started to blanch.

“You are going to learn to spell a new word Bronn, it is “sergeant-at-arms”, it’s hyphenated into one word, and you will get to know it _very_ well.”


	39. Chapter 37

**Chapter 37**

**Petyr XXV**

Of course, it would not be as simple as “King Stannis dispenses justice from on high and everyone goes home after the war”. Such things were maybe how it was on the screen or page, but in the reality of Westeros, it was the prelude to the real post-war discussions that actually mattered. Those were not, thankfully, happening on Pyke, but would be in Casterly Rock, and would be between the high and notable members of the noble classes, and while most of the men at arms would get to go home, as well as the minor lords, Petyr had found out that because of his new position, he didn’t get to. Granted, he was hardly the only “Commander” of forces who was being kept around when they could have been let go home, but it was still a pain in the ass. He wanted to be home in his own bed, to take his time to explain to Pol, and the rest of his household, the changing circumstances that were about to befall them all. Hell, he might even be able to do something about getting married from his home, though he quickly brushed aside that thought, he didn’t like thinking about that. Instead he was being kept on hand by Stannis until the conference was over, in case, for any gods awful reason, Petyr was needed to talk on some matter. Credit to his new boss where it was due, the King had at least been willing to allow Petyr’s two “deadlines” to now not start until after Stannis was on the road back to King’s Landing. It would buy him a couple of extra days, maybe a fortnight if things really stretched out, but that would still be more time, and like a man condemned, more time was a welcome thing.

It was also a good thing that Tywin Lannister was being as gracious a host as he could be, the Old Lion must have known his running off to the Rock when Greyjoy’s rebellion began had cost him a lot of his political capital. He wasn’t being humble, that would never serve the man, but he was going out of his way to show to the King that he was still helpful, and considering it was looking like the post-rebellion small council make up would just be him and Jon Arryn swapping roles, it was either working very well, or not at all. Petyr didn’t particularly care, but he did appreciate the perks, and one of which had been using the Maester’s ravens to send a message home. Well, eventually, it would have to hit a couple of relays simply because Baelmanor wasn’t fully connected up to the raven network, and that particular oversight was going to be something Petyr would be fixing, but not in a way that the Maester’s would like. He was also fairly certain any message he was sending out would be delayed so that Tywin’s spies could read it, he didn’t care, the information he had included wasn’t anything that mattered, just an explanation that he was going to be delayed in his return. The silence he had been hearing from Gulltown since before the Battle of Redwyne was starting to worry him, and he could only assume it was some sort of lag in reaching him. Well, he could assume _other_ things too, but he didn’t want to.

So lost was he in the thoughts of the things he didn’t want to assume that he almost collided with the boy who had been trying to get his attention.

“Oh I’m sorry, I was away in my thoughts and didn’t see you down....there.”

His voice trailed off as he realised the person he was looking at was not a boy. Oh he was the right height for it, but Tyrion Lannister was somewhere in his late teens if not early twenties, and Petyr couldn’t help but feel embarrassed at his choice of phrase.

“A common fact in my life Lord Petyr” Tyrion said, giving him a tight, but honest smile “and while you are not the first, I do think I was coming from your left so you would have extenuating circumstances.”

“Be that as it may Master Tyrion, I should have seen you, and should most definitely have chosen a different turn of phrase, and for that I can only apologise.”

“Nothing to apologise for, I’ve received worse comments.”

“And from better men no doubt, but still, I am not speaking some rote formality, I am sincere.”

Tyrion gave him a look then, and Petyr was not sure how to respond to the look so he gave a slight shrug.

“If we can skip over that, how can I assist you?”

Tyrion’s expression changed then from whatever look it was that he had been giving Petyr to something that actually looked mildly embarrassed.

“I apologise if this may seem forward of me Lord Petyr, but I was wondering if you might have some free time?”

“Certainly, all I have at the moment is free time. The Royal Army looks after itself a lot, and I can only go over my own writings so many times before I’ll wind up taking the whole thing to a fireplace.”

“It is actually about your writings I was hoping to speak to you. But that you are doing more surprises me, are you by any chance working on a follow up piece to your previous book?”

There was a hint of, _adoration_ of all things in Tyrion’s voice as he spoke, and Petyr found himself slightly surprised.

“Yes, I’m working on a similar book about the Ironborn Campaign, at least the parts I was involved in. I don’t think I will be doing as I did with the last one, but nothing else I reckon it would make a nice piece on a shelf back home.”

“And why would you not do as you did with your last one?”

There was a slight tone of pleading to Tyrion’s voice then, and Petyr suddenly had a strong hunch about who read the copy that had been sent this way.

“Well I found after the fact, the writing of it and having copies sent around to a select few might seem a bit egotistical. But answer me this please Master Tyrion, have you _read_ my book?”

Tyrion nodded fervently, and before Petyr could say anything, the other man started speaking.

“Oh yes, several times actually. I mean Jaime said I could read it shortly after it arrived, but like almost any other book on wars written by a man in it I skipped it initially. It was only at a lack of anything else I started to read it, and I must admit, outside of a few of the older tomes on dragons, I have _never_ read anything as I did your book. I burned through several of the Rock’s best candles just to _keep_ reading it. No egotism, no making yourself seem some great hero, and yet, not dry and dusty as months old flour. It was the most _fascinating_ book on warfare I’ve ever read, I even got Jaime to read it. Jaime!”

Tyrion’s tone had started to speed up and get more excited as he spoke, and he only stopped to let out a small laugh as if the idea of his brother reading anything was hilarious, Petyr opened his mouth to speak but the younger man kept going.

“Of course he wanted to read the parts that featured him first, he was equal parts shocked and flattered at your description of the events in King’s Landing and afterwards. But after that he read on, he must have mentioned the part of you admitting to the state you were in at the Battle of the Bells a dozen times, it was as if he had never heard something so entertaining. Of course that was not my favourite part, no, that would be the rescue of Lady Lyanna. I mean, trite it may sound to have loved the end of the book, but your final passage I think was the best summation of the book as a whole, not highlighting the situation, not lamenting the loss of your own eye. But a simple lamentation that you should have brought a second crossbow. Simple, honest, and darkly hilarious.”

Tyrion’s enthusiasm was starting to get a bit much for Petyr, but how could he do anything other than be there and listen? Instead he decided to speak before Tyrion could keep going.

“I appreciate your sentiment Master Tyrion, truly I do. I am glad to have met someone who has actually read the book outside of my own Maester.”

He also suspected Stannis had read it, but while his new boss might occasionally make an oblique reference, Petyr still wasn’t quite certain. Essentially, either he and Stannis were on the same wavelength, or the King was occasionally trolling him.

“Only him? How can anyone else not have read it?”

Tyrion almost seemed stunned, and it took everything in Petyr’s self-control not to laugh just then.

“Because many can not read? I don’t wish to stroke my own ego, gods know I hate that more than anything else, but consider how many even nobly born people have barely a grasp of literacy. Hells, I’ve known more craftsmen and Septons who can read and write than noblemen. If for whatever reason those people decided to read my few words, that’s up to them.”

“Those that also have access to the book that is.”

“Well yes, but a wide distribution of books is something that would be....difficult.”

If Tyrion noticed the way Petyr had to change his words at the last second, he didn’t notice.

“True, if it were simple to make pages of books, it would doubtless have happened by now.”

“Or someone hasn’t thought of it yet.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth Petyr wanted them back.

“Well that begs the question then Lord Petyr, how else would it be done? It is not like you could just stamp a text on to a page like one seals a letter....or could you.”

Tyrion’s expression changed as he spoke, and the younger man’s expression became thoughtful then, and Petyr had to fight the sense of horror he could feel. He had been determined not to introduce the printing press, he did not want the Faith of the Seven going full Martin Luther, not while whatever the hell was beyond the Wall was a possibility.

‘But what about after that?’ Came a thought in his mind ‘When all that is done, when the future, the real far off future happens, what then?’

Petyr tried to ignore that thought, he tried not to think of anything beyond what would come to pass in the next ten to fifteen years. If he wanted to keep the press from happening, he would need to say something now to stop Tyrion, maybe, maybe the younger man would go get drunk and forget this entire conversation. And yet, he came back to the thought, and he found to his horror, that he agreed with it in this case.

“Master Tyrion” he said, and Tyrion looked at him “I think that any man who could do such a thing, would be doing a great thing indeed..”

Tyrion stared at him then, and then he nodded slowly, as if seeing something, and Petyr tried his best to control his breathing as the short man started to nod more vigorously.

“Yes, if you could find some way to simply apply a series of words or even letters as stamps, you could avoid a scribe or Maester entirely, maybe, it can't be something as simple as that, surely?”

The shorter man was trailing off then, and Petyr spoke then to not just take back his attention, but hopefully to not allow him to doubt this idea, from wherever it had come in Tyrion's mind, to death.

“Well Master Tyrion, if you feel the idea has merit and that you would like to seriously pursue it, may I make a suggestion?”

“Certainly Lord Petyr.”

“Travel out to Gulltown, I happen to know a Lord out there who might be willing to help you with the idea if you try it.”

***

Stannis may have put Petyr into his position with what he, that is Stannis, thought were good intentions. Petyr didn’t necessarily agree with them, but he also wasn’t in a position to argue, but be that as it may, it meant Petyr had a job to do. The best way to do it was address the areas which were likely to be the most troublesome and worry about those first. Financing wasn’t going to be an issue at the moment, the advantages of the Army being small and a robust economy, but he was going to have to have one _hell_ of a plan in place to fight both Jon Arryn and Tywin Lannister over the issue for every copper penny he was going to need if he was going to do what he wanted with this force. To say nothing of the expansion in numbers beyond the fifteen hundred that it was capped at right now. Manpower _would_ be an issue as things stood now, simply because the idea of recruiting a “professional” army out of the population and not getting swamped under by what a fellow Irishman had once described as “the scum of the Earth” was nearly impossible. Stannis may hope that by attaching Petyr’s name to the whole thing, he could get himself some good upstanding second or third sons of the nobility hoping for a bit of glory, and while they would be useful for forming an officer corps, Petyr would be dammed before he’d allow any intelligent and capable sons of a shopkeep, bricklayer or crofter to be blocked out of a command position purely because their ancestors had the misfortune to not be a total bastard when the Andals came over.

However, there was more than one way to deal with the quantity over quality issue he was going to get with numbers, and that was to put someone in charge of looking over the new recruits that could put the fear of the Stranger in them. It needed to be someone not only from the nobility, but regarded as being in the top tiers of the “chivalric” rankings, so that when the second son of Lord Whatsafuck of Nowherecares Hall decided to get uppity, he could get smacked down by someone above reproach. The problem was, the number of such men was pretty low in Westeros. Brynden would have been ideal for the job, but the Blackfish wouldn’t abandon Lysa, at least not yet, and Petyr didn’t have the heart to ask the man to do that. Randyll Tarly would have been a good choice, provided that Petyr could have gotten him to agree to do it, but the Lord of Horn Hall had taken a large rock to the head from a height during the assault on Pyke, and was deader than disco. A major loss indeed, but one that he couldn’t feel miserable about, after all a father who threatens to murder his own son out of egotistical desire could, in Petyr’s polite opinion, fuck right off. That left only his third choice, and it meant a meeting he didn’t particularly want, but had to do.

“A drink Ser Barristan? Lord Tywin has graciously opened up the majority of his cellars to me.” The older knight had agreed to the meeting in the small apartment that Petyr had use of in Casterly Rock, and had just been ushered in by Bronn.

Barristan just gave Petyr a long look, and then looked towards the three pitchers sitting on a serving tray nearby.

“My options Lord Baelish?” His voice was clipped and precise, clearly he wasn’t happy to be here, but he was running on hard-wired instincts of social protocol.

“An Arbor Red, Lannisport spiced honey or lemonade.”

“Lemonade?” Selmy’s tone actually took on a quizzical aspect as if he was genuinely curious, that was good, it meant that whatever thing Barristan Selmy had against Petyr wasn’t totally clouding the man’s judgment.

“A drink of lemon juice, ginger juice, cold water and just a dash of honey. It cuts through thirst on hot days like Valyrian steel and doesn’t get you drunk. I picked up a taste for it in Myr.”

The last part was a lie, truth be told Petyr had started making it as a non-alcoholic option once he realised he had easy access to lemons, ginger, honey and clean cold water back home. Minute Maid it was not, but it hit the spot well enough and that it _wasn’t_ a thing elsewhere was a surprise.

“I’ll take the Arbor Red, but watered down please.”

Petyr nodded and poured a cup of equal parts Arbor Red and a smaller pitcher of water for Barristan, then poured himself a cup of lemonade and sat down with both drinks. He took a sip of his drink and smiled.

“I assure you Ser Barristan, you do not know what you are missing out on.”

“I assume that you didn’t ask to see me just to discuss drinks?” The same clipped preciseness was back in the older man’s voice, and Petyr tried to keep his own smile on his face without it becoming brittle and forced.

“No Ser Barristan, I did not. If we wish to skip the pleasantries and get to the meat of the reason I asked to see you, we may. Fair?”

Petyr allowed the smile to drop from his face as he finished, instead choosing to stare in a way that he hoped didn’t come off as confrontational. No need to insult the man after all, and after a brief moment, Barristan nodded, which Petyr took as his sign to begin.

“Ser Barristan, if I may be blunt, when we all go marching home again, what _exactly_ do you plan to do? Keep living in your brother’s keep, hoping to be called up for the next war? Take a ship to Essos and become a sellsword? Or just idle yourself away into nothingness?”

Barristan’s facial expression quickly changed and Petyr realised his earlier advice to himself about not insulting the man had failed, and before he could respond, Petyr opened his mouth again.

“All of those would be, frankly, gross wastes of your ability. You are a renowned leader of men, an honourable man who did not stain himself while serving a dishonourable one, and, to put it bluntly, you are well experienced in the practicalities of war. I have been given the duty of being the head of the Royal Army, among the _many_ things that are my responsibilities now are actually taking that force and turning it into something that all men who serve in it can be proud of. I would like you to come with me and serve as my second in command, in return for seven years service, I can offer you lands and a title that would be your own, as well as your descendants. It will be no great estate, but it is in the Crownlands and would allow you to live comfortably.”

A lot of buttering up, coupled with the carrot at the end, and Petyr hoped his words would work. The land in question _was_ his to hand out, although the odds were good that when Stannis had told him about it, this wasn’t the usage for it the King had had in mind.

“Why?” The response was said almost at a whisper, and Petyr almost started at the suddenness that it broke the silence with.

“Pardon Ser Barristan?”

“I said Lord Baelish, why? You can have your pick of individuals to do this, so why would you ask for me?”

“As I said, you know what you are doing. I need someone who has not only seen the sharp end of warfare, but knows how to train men to be prepared for it. I sure as the seven hells can’t do it, I have my ideas and theories, but at the end of the day I’m more a logistician who has been at the right place and time as opposed to any great leader of men.”

Flattering self-portrait, it was not, but Petyr didn’t care. It was the truth, and while there was a time and place for self-aggrandizing, now was neither of them. Instead of responding though, Barristan raised his cup to his mouth, and took a long drink before putting the empty cup down on the table between the two and fixing Petyr with a stare.

“I hate you, you know?”

The words were said with a manner of fact attitude to them that Petyr couldn’t help but blink and feel his mouth slightly go agape.

“I received my title over three decades ago, was granted it for un-horsing both Prince Duncan and Duncan the tall at a tourney. I gave my entire life to the ideals of that which I sought to be, to be a knight true and upstanding. I followed the duties of my office to the letter, I stood by and allowed a monster to be, purely because he was who I was duty bound to serve. I watched brothers come and go, and when my King gave me a duty, to keep his son safe, I failed and was captured. Because of my duties, because of my actions, I was deemed to have acted with honour, and that was enough for me. But then my brothers were before the new King.”

Barristan had stopped looking at Petyr then, he was staring off into some middle distance that only he could see, and Petyr found himself leaning in closer to hear the man talk.

“First was Jamie Lannister. Oh he may have been actually last, but his case was judged long before mine. The boy had been too young to be in the Kingsguard by at least five years, but yet the politics of the whole thing made his potential as a hostage too good for the Mad King to ignore. And when it came down to following his King or following his knightly vows, he followed his vows. He killed the man he had sworn to protect, and was made a hero for it because he saved the lives of _many_ more he was sworn to. How could this child have more honour in his actions than I could with more than a lifetimes more experience than him? And then there was Arthur. He had followed his vows, done as he was supposed to do, followed the Prince with no questions asked, as what is a Dayne if not loyal? And when it came time for his sentence, it seemed none would speak for him.”

Barristan then stared at Petyr, and it was a hard stare, but it wasn’t one of anger, there was something within it that Petyr couldn’t figure out.

“Except for _you_. Arthur Dayne, the most hated man in the Red Keep after only the Mad-Prince himself, the man who had killed several loyal men of the North, who had facilitated in the rape of Lyanna Stark, who had cut _your eye out_ , and yet you still spoke for him. The most minor Lord in all of Westeros, standing up to the King, in his own court, to save the life of an enemy. You had no reason to, no need to, and yet you did what I, his own sworn-brother, could not do. It was on that day I realised I hated you, for you on that day showed more of that which I am supposed to be, than I ever have in my life. And _now_ you interject yourself into my life again, to do something I know to my shame I would not do in your position. I hate you Lord Baelish, I hate you for all that you remind of that I am not, and I do not think a day will ever come when I will not think so. So long as the pain of that day in King’s Landing is in my mind. Now, knowing all that, do you still want me for such a task?”

It was shame. That was what was lurking Barristan’s face as he stared at Petyr, a shame masked in hostility, and Petyr found it was hard to trust his own voice for words for a second. Gods be damned, he hadn’t known this, hell, if he _had_ known this he would have taken steps to address it long before now. All this because he had made one _stupid_ promise to someone that had gotten out of hand, all he had needed was check Arthur Dayne’s welfare, not save the bastard, not do all _this_. He took a deep breath, centred himself again mentally, and looked Barristan straight in the eye, his gaze unwavering.

“Yes. I will not lie, this is not pleasant to hear, nor do I think I truly understand, but hate me or not, I need the best man I can get. There are none in this land who can argue that is not Barristan the Bold, and if you want to scream and rant at me, do so. Hell, if you want to beat seven types of shit out of me, give me a warning and I’ll meet you a training ground with ironwood blades and you can make a maester earn his pay. Help me turn the Royal Army into what it _can_ be, and I’ll take whatever hatred you have as the price. That is my offer.”

Barristan didn’t waver in his gaze back, but he held a hand out to Petyr, and Petyr took it in his own, and exchanged a bone crushing squeeze with the older man.

“A deal then Lord Baelish. Do you have any orders for me?”

“Be at King’s Landing a year from now. We will have a lot of work to do, and I have a lot of affairs to get in order before then.”

***

The easy parts were done. Well, the immediate ones that was. The Royal Army was going to be one _hell_ of a long term thing, but he already had plans within plans to go exploring, and with Barristan onboard, he at least had a good number two to help cover things. He hadn’t lied when he told the other man he was likely to be useless in any role but that as a logistician, he just hadn’t made clear that among the men that Barristan would be training would be Petyr himself, in a fashion that was. Full on “Sitting in class and being told how to lead men” was a luxury he couldn’t afford, even if he thought Barristan was likely to be teaching like that in the first place, no, Petyr was going to have to watch, observe, and try and marry whatever the older knight came up with Petyr’s own responsibilities. And thoughts of “marriage” and “his own responsibilities” naturally leant themselves towards the darker aspects of Petyr’s mind right now.

He had hoped with a couple more years he could weasel his way out of Jon Arryn’s ultimatum, and he had, technically. Just in doing so he had gotten himself slapped down with a shorter one from the only person he couldn’t ignore without enacting his “Tahiti Plan”. And while setting himself up in the Summer Isles sounded nice for a while, Stannis Baratheon was the sort of man who would take such a grievous insult and deliver his rebuttal at the head of an invading army. If he didn’t just pay off a bunch of pirates instead. Disappearing to Essos was not an option, as frankly dying there was easier unless he was willing to constantly be moving, and he wouldn’t do that to Pol. So no, he had eleven months and two weeks, give or take a couple of days, to show up at Stannis’s court with a wife in tow, which meant a lot of very uncomfortable truths needed to be faced.

He was in the small apartment that had been afforded to him in Casterly Rock, and as he sipped at the cup beside him, he thanked the Gods above that the Ironborn hadn’t managed to breach the rock and ruin the wine cellars of Tywin Lannister. He may not have a great tongue for wine, but what he had right now was a slightly watered down sweet, dry white, and he was needing it to keep his nerves a bit as he looked at the parchment before him, and picked up a pen.

‘Truth the first’ he wrote, deciding to start with the least uncomfortable thoughts ‘any wife needs to be comfortable with Pol.’

His daughter’s well being was going to be one of those issues that he wouldn’t budge on. He couldn’t, to do so would be the sort of betrayal he would not be able to live with, and Gods alone knew he had a lot of dark stains to live with already. And he had enough bad nights sleep of a dying woman rasping out “keep your word” to make him suddenly feel for “Book-Ned”. But knowing who among the various women of Westeros or beyond would be ok with this, and which would go full on “Book-Cat” or worse on the matter, was something he just wasn’t equipped well enough to know.

‘Truth the second’ he wrote, then took a long pull from the cup ‘reality.’

He had barely finished writing the word when he felt the headache coming. Resigned to his existence he may be, mostly reconciled in his own head between the people he was, and he was now also, but that didn’t mean there weren’t fissure lines that could crack every now and again, and “reality” was a big one. He took a few moments to breath in and out then, slowly, and deliberately to center himself, and once he was sure he was down to nothing more than a dull throb, he turned his attention back to what had caused it. The problem was, that even though he, Petyr Baelish, knew that everything around him was real, he was _also_ acutely aware that _nothing_ was real, and that especially meant the people around him. As such, how could he form a deep connection with what were, essentially, two dimensional pieces of ink on paper? Everyone he met from Pol or Ned down to a random servant in the hallway were not real, and that begged the question, was even _he_ real? Or was he just some other character being driven around by a hack with a keyboard? But that leant to the matter of how those around him couldn’t possibly _not_ be real? The breathed, they thought, they ate, drank, shit, pissed, lived and died all around him. How could he not form a bond with them? It was a school of thought that could, and had in the past, driven him to drink.

His solution to dealing with it had simply been to ignore it. The problem was, along with the things that had come along with him on his inter-reality trip had been the clinical depression that had dogged him so much in his other life, and that source of problems had found a great little tool under whispering “none of this is real” to him at the moments of his greatest pride and achievements. If he was to take someone into his life so intimately as to marry them, he needed to be prepared for that voice to come back every single time he thought of them. And his unwillingness to do so had been a large part of his reluctance to seek anyone out and become intimate with them on anything more than a superficial level.

He looked at the parchment again, and looked away, instead he picked up his half-full cup and drained it entirely, and stared at the pitcher debating whether another cup would be worth it for the third point, but instead he took a deep breath and tried to center himself entirely.

“I know” he said to himself in a half-whisper “you don’t like talking about it, but we have to do this right.”

He picked up his quill then, dipped it in ink and wrote.

‘Truth the third, asexuality.’

There was no sudden fanfare of trumpets, no revelation before him, no splitting headache or attacking raven, there was nothing. Nothing but the deep feeling of unease, like a ship’s brief moment of weightlessness as it crested a wave before hitting the water again. He had no interest in sex, on some days he was straight up _repulsed_ by the idea entirely, and in the world James Turner had come from that was a, _niche_ , view to have, but was otherwise a perfectly normal and fine thing. In this world though, the one were Petyr Baelish lived, and where he was going to have to have an heir, and _any_ wife he got would be downright _expecting_ him to be up to making one, that was a problem. Oh he could flirt, was comfortable around other LGBT people, hell he could even _aesthetically_ appreciate someone’s attributes, but the actual act filled him with dread. And that was the main impetus behind his desire to wriggle out of the deadline.

‘And why you are not really mad at the Raven about Pol’ said a dark sneering voice in the confines of his own mind, ‘all the upsides, none of the down.’

“Fuck off.” Petyr growled, and he stared at the parchment more, trying to ignore the voice. It was _correct_ , in a fashion, but that didn’t mean he was happy about it. Pol made a, for lack of a better term, great beard, in that regard, and he had been hoping to simply point to her as his heir being enough to get Arryn to feck off, but now she was going to work against him, after all, he had fathered one child, why not another?

He found, after a while, that he wasn’t even trying to keep on top of the various thoughts and emotions that were swimming in his mind then, simply he was staring at the parchment and trying to focus on it alone and let everything else wash over him. Finally, after what felt like an age, he picked up the quill and wrote simply beneath the other points.

‘Solution. Help.’

He needed help in this. Someone who _would_ have Petyr’s best interests at mind, who would listen to what he had to say, and would actually be able to _really_ assist him in this. He needed family, someone to trust implicitly, and as he thought that, the solution for who to turn to lit up in his mind like balefire on a moonless night. It would be a leap of faith alright, but he did have family in this world, of a sorts anyway, and while she was not without faults, he was going to put his trust in the closest thing to an older sister he had. He wouldn’t be going straight home after all, no, he was going to have to ask Ned if he could tag along so he could talk to his wife.

***

Ned, as it turned out did not object to Petyr’s company, at least at first. He had started to regret his decision when Howland Reed pointed out that with Petyr around, they could “borrow” one of Petyr’s ships and travel up to a small fishing village outside Deepwood Motte and simply cross the Wolfswood to reach Winterfell, shaving weeks if not a month of overland travel off in total time. Ned had begun to try and argue his way out of that logic, when Dacey had spoken instead.

“ _Well my Lord, if you wish to spend over a month to return to your home, so be it. My husband and I, however, would like to return to our children before they are adults grown.”_

_Ned turned his gaze to Benjen who simply gave his older brother a smile._

“ _The things we suffer through in service of our own Ned.”_

“ _You quoting father at me is a pain in the arse, you are aware of that?”_

“ _You are only acting that way because it means the fierce Northern Wolf will have to be on a ship.”_

“ _I hate you Benjen.”_

“ _Love you as well brother dearest, now let us all agree that Howland is right and getting home sooner would be nice.”_

As such, Ned had only grumbled a bit more before he had boarded the “ _Titan’s Sprint”_ for what Petyr assured Captain Delver would be the last trip before he could take his crew home for a rest. That Petyr was paying an increased bonus wage to the crew for this trip was probably more important than any reassurances he gave the captain, not that Petyr thought his crew would take out any disgruntlement on their part against him, but that he didn’t want to be seen as taking the piss totally. As it was, the passage north was uneventful, and outside of a training demonstration of one of the flamethrowers on the ship, he wasn’t going to go showing off the full thing in case something went wrong, and the repeating crossbows, the trip was almost boring, even though they made good time with favourable winds most of the way. Ned had even appeared to have enjoyed the trip, that was until a squall off of Stony Shore shook the ship hard and his sea-sickness returned thrice fold. Indeed Petyr couldn’t help but notice his friend was _very_ enthusiastic in being back on firm ground when they landed at the village. Especially as the last part of the trip had required using the ships row-boats to make ashore. Ned greeted the men in Stark livery who were there to great them and took the reins of a horse with ease.

“Horses now, horses you know you can trust Petyr.” He said as he settled into the saddle. “No unnecessary bobbing about, no fearing storms, no only being at the whims and mercies of the wind.”

Petyr took a set of reins that was offered as well and swung himself into the saddle with all the grace of a sack of grain, but that done he rested himself as best he could and looked at Ned.

“No, instead you are being thrown up and down, your arse rubbed raw, while you need to worry about anything from wolves to bears, present company _very much_ included, and at the mercy of something worse than the wind, an animal that cares infinitely more about its next meal than you.”

Ned laughed then and started to ride away from him.

“Best keep up Petyr, unless you want to meet one of those wolves you were talking about?”

“Can’t be worse than you Ned. Probably a better sailor too.”

***

As they approached the gates of Winterfell, Petyr was surprised as Ned let out a slight laugh.

“Something funny Ned?”

“Not particularly, but strange I suppose. It’s twice now I’ve returned from a war with you beside me on a horse.”

“Well I’ll pray to any gods listening there won’t be a third time.”

Ned turned to face Petyr then, and Petyr felt taken aback at the serious expression on his face.

“There will be a third time Petyr. Or at least another war, I’m sorry to say it to you, but there is always another damned war.”

“Well then, let us both hope if you must return from another Ned, it is you going home without me. One way or another.”

“Don’t say such a thing. There is much left in you Petyr, and I wish to see where it is going.”

Petyr said nothing then, partially because the words hit him hard, but also because he knew Ned was right. There would be another war, and as Petyr’s eye turned northwards, he found that he was hoping for two things. That Ned _would_ return from that one, and that so would he, but as he thought that, a third thought came unbidden, the one that if he had to choose between the two, he knew which he would pick in a heartbeat.

They rode through the gate together, Benjen and Dacey behind them, Howland had left their company in the Wolfswood and headed for his own home. He had spoken to Petyr before he left, simply promising that he would be visiting a challenge upon him in the near future, one he had seen to do in a dream.

Any dwelling on that concern was destroyed by the exclamation from a whole host of Stark children for their fathers, and mother, as both Ned’s own children as well as Benjen and Dacey’s eldest child came barrelling over as they dismounted. It was oddly reminiscent of the last time Petyr had been here, however this time it was not Cat who came to stand beside him as Stark’s reintroduced themselves to each other.

“I will start to think it unlucky if a Stark returns without you by their side if you keep this up Lord Petyr.”

“I prefer to think that eventually your House will stop needing me to keep them alive Lady Lyanna, besides, I’m here because I asked Ned if I could speak to your good-sister, not out of any oath offered this time.”

The years had agreed with Lyanna, even if they had only been eight, and she laughed at his remark as Petyr saw something move behind her legs. She noticed his attention, and moved a hand behind her to half push a young boy out beside her from where he had been, and with him came a girl of equal age.

“I trust you remember Jon and Alysanne?”

“Oh aye, though I will admit they are a bit bigger than I remember.” He said to Lyanna, and then he crouched down to look the children in the eyes. “Last time I saw either of you, you were but a babe in your mother’s arms. Both of you.”

Jon Stark didn’t say anything at first, his attention was on Petyr’s face but to the left of it, and Petyr smiled slightly. Alysanne had shrunk back slightly though, and Petyr found it hard to accept that he could have frightened the poor girl, instead he looked at Jon and spoke.

“Yes lad, it’s a real scar. From lip to scalp, taken from the most dangerous man I’ve ever met.”

“From Arthur Dayne.”

Jon’s voice, even for a child was serious, and Petyr flicked a quick glance at Lyanna before answering.

“Aye, from him.”

“You saved my mother.”

There was no question in what the boy said, just a simple solid fact and Petyr allowed his smile to grow a bit more.

“No, your uncle saved her. I just happened to serve as a great distraction.”

“But why would my uncle do that to you?”

That question didn’t come from Jon, but from young Alysanne, and Petyr looked at her and spoke softly.

“Because some times in life, the world can be cruel and strange. Now though, I dare say it is enough of that” he stood up then and looked towards the other Starks “after all, your family is looking for you.”

The children turned to look themselves, and both started to trot off as Lyanna continued to stand there. Once the children were away, he spoke softly.

“So he knows part of the story and she doesn’t?”

“Keeping the details from Jon are difficult, and you can understand why I am reluctant to speak to her about it.”

“And her mother?”

“Ashara is at the Wall, visiting _him_.”

If it was possible for words to kill, Petyr would have looked for a mushroom cloud to the north.

“I’m surprised she is allowed to.”

“Ned arranged it before he left, compensation for her being stuck here while there was fighting going on.”

“And how are you? I will admit it has been a while since we’ve written.”

“No real changes from our last correspondence, my son continues to grow, my brothers continue to need to be reminded of their own ineptitudes. Time passes by and the days turn to nights. Life carries on sort of deal.”

Petyr had nothing to say to that, so he stood in silence then for a few moments before Cat started to walk towards them both.

“So Petyr, I understand that you wanted to see me?”

“Yes Cat, though possibly somewhere a bit more private, it’s, ah, a delicate matter.”

“Can it wait until after dinner, after all surely you are planning on spending the night?”

“Certainly, though I will admit, I would like it done and to be homeward bound before the weeks end.”

***

Cat, luckily enough, was willing to act with some swiftness, and while a wrapped up baby Arya being present was not part of the conversation Petyr had prepared for, it was one he found he could live with as he held the girl with an approving look from her mother.

“Unlike Ned, I don’t even have to tell you to support her head.”

“You and Lysa dragged me into playing with dolls enough times that some of it stuck, thank you very much. Beside, I didn’t get to have this part of Pol’s life, by the time she was in my care she was too wriggly and adventurous for this.”

Cat’s expression was a tight smile and he looked at her.

“Something the matter Cat?”

“Nothing, just, well, the idea of raising that girl by your own. Even with a staff, it can’t be easy.”

“Sometimes it is not. Sometimes I wonder what the hell I got myself in to, but she is my daughter, and as such she is worth it. Family, duty, honour.”

Cat just seemed to nod in approval at his choice of words, and Petyr shifted his balance ever so slightly so as to get comfortable without disturbing Arya.

“And funnily enough, it is on that topic I wanted to see you.”

Cat said nothing, just nodding for him to continue speaking, and Petyr swallowed hard before he started. Gods but he hoped he was making the right call here.

“I don’t know if you have heard, but after the war, the last war that is, Jon Arryn gave me a certain deadline.”

“Ah yes, the famous deadline of “Lord Baelish’s hand”. I’m sad to say Petyr, it became somewhat common knowledge quickly, and that was without Lysa writing to me about it. He gave you a decade if I remember?”

“Yes, ten years” he spoke hurriedly and tried not to focus on how well known the story had gotten “but unfortunately, things have changed a bit. Mainly His Grace wants me to settle the issue before I take over full time command of the Royal Army. So he has given me one year to resolve the matter in any way he can, or else he will just let Jon Arryn settle the matter early.”

“I see” Cat said, slowly as she closed her eyes for a moment in concentration “and I am guessing that you would be somewhat against the idea of going with whoever Jon Arryn would happen to pick for you?”

“Yes. You and Lysa’s marriages are the exception to political marriages there Cat.”

She gave him a look that turned into a slight sniff and a cross expression.

“Oh the prerogative of men, to decide whether they actually get a choice in the matter.”

“Sorry. But Cat, please, I need help with this, and frankly I don’t have many I can turn to. Worst comes to worse, I’ll go home grab my cook and tell the entire nobility to fuck off, but there is too much fucking politics involved in all this for that simple of a solution.”

She gave him a pitying smile then.

“Oh yes, that is the curse of it all isn’t it? Politics. But I suppose if I am to help you with this, I must ask then, what is it that you are seeking in a wife then? I mean, outside of the obvious parts.”

“The obvious parts?”

“Well, looks and such aside Petyr, I do think I know you a little bit. As such, you are not going to be happy with some woman who’s skull is only fit for storing hay during the winter, and while you might have a healthy income these days, I dare say that a woman who is just going to flitter all your riches away on fineries is not exactly on the table either. You need a wife who can compliment your deficiencies while also serving to improve your qualities. That is also going to mean one with either a working knowledge of the politics of courtly life, or with such an abrasive approach to it that the court will rather find an excuse not to involve her.”

Cat’s words came out in a measured, calm tone, and Petyr found a moment of his conflicting perceptions of the world come and go for a moment as the Cat before him, the Cat he knew and who fit his memories also collided with the version of her from the future from page and screen. If this Cat had been around after Ned’s head got cut off, Robb Stark would have smashed his way through Seven Kingdoms and anyone else who wanted a go. Then again, she probably would have told Ned to just get the fuck out of dodge at the first sign of trouble and skipped about two books worth of needless drama and suffering.

“Well, yeah.”

Masterful wordplay it was not, and the response caused Cat to throw her head back and laugh a bit, which actually caused the baby Arya to stir in Petyr’s arms and open her eyes up in confusion at the loud noise. The child didn’t start to cry, but Petyr still passed her over to her mother just in case, and not at all as a stalling tactic to get his thoughts together.

“Ok” he said after a moment “let us say you haven’t just nailed me to a door with your comprehension. Whatever about all that, there is going to need to be something to factor into this that I can not budge on. And that is my daughter.”

“Not a minor thing Petyr, there are few women in this world who can handle the idea of their husbands bastards with ease and grace. I was _concerned_ to say the least about Ned’s own daughter, but Alysanne’s circumstances are hardly the worst, and she is a daughter, I do not know how I would react if he had come home from Dorne with a son.”

Petyr winced in pain as he bit the inside of his cheek hard and Cat looked at him in distress, he waved her down and spoke with slight pain.

“Sorry, bit my own mouth for some reason. Anyway, yes, whoever it is needs to be someone who won’t be a monster to Pol. I don’t care about their background, I will not have an evil step-mother thrown on my daughter.”

“Which is admirable Petyr, Ned has already told me you asked for her to be legitimized?”

“Yes, it’s part of this whole mess, Stannis gave it to me in return for my word that I’d have this matter settled. I don’t intend to start breaking any vows now, especially to him.”

He hadn’t meant for his voice to become as intense as it had, and Cat stared at him for a long time then before she spoke.

“I have a few ideas of women, but I will need to think it through before I can give you any solid advice. Can you wait a couple of days?”

Petyr scratched the back of his head and tried to school his expression from the impatience he was feeling. Yes, she had other things to do, and yes she was doing him a favour, but that didn’t mean he wanted to stay here any longer than he had to.

“Two days I can do Cat, but I was serious about not being here longer than a week.”

“Two days is all I will need Petyr, maybe even less. Now, unless you wish to cause a scandal, you may wish to leave as it is this ones feeding time.”

She nodded to Arya and Petyr, possessing an ability to read between the lines, left with all the dignity and grace of a startled buffalo.

***

At odds of nothing better to do, and pointedly ignoring the feeling of being watched, Petyr settled himself into the Godswood for most of the following day. Cat would do what she would do, and he had a distinct feeling she had filled Ned in on why he was here as his friend had started to become almost _too_ friendly and cheerful, which was a disconcerting thing when you were dealing with Ned Stark. The calm and quiet of the Godswood was good for him, he knew that much. That a certain dark cloaked prick was watching him, if not said pricks bosses, and the somewhat traumatic experiences he had gone through here not withstanding.

“Meditation is good for the spirit you prick.”

He spoke it softly as he sat near the heart-tree, and had just gotten comfortable when a voice spoke in response.

“Yes it is, though I don’t appreciate being called that.”

He scrambled to his feet in surprise, but caught himself in his own ankles and sprawled on the ground. A part of him at the last second threw him _away_ from the heart-tree as he didn’t want to test his luck in regards to the shittiest social media service in history, but the rest of him was too busy scrambling as the same voice that had spoken started to laugh from among the branches of the tree.

“In my defence” he said, slowly getting back to his feet “I wasn’t exactly expecting you to be hiding in the bloody tree Lyanna.”

He looked up and saw the female Stark sitting amongst the branches in an almost naturally comfortable position. She didn’t wear any skirts, just trousers, and with a quick movement she slid down and out to stand before him.

“Nor I expect you to be out here, but you are still correct, it is good for the spirit. Healing it more than anything else. Ned spent the night here after you both got back, he always does when he has to take a man’s life. I doubt that war is any easier on you, well, war and your other concerns.”

Her expression was soft, compassionate, and she settled in to sit on a root near where Petyr had been moments before.

“No, war is hell. Whoever said that first should have yelled it louder so we could have avoided it. As for my other concerns, I’m guessing then that your good-sister has said something to you?”

“Yes, though it wasn’t something done for a lark to betray your confidence. She’d rather I lied to you and said nothing, probably, but, well, you know me.”

“Aye, subtle as a brick.”

She stuck her tongue out at him and Petyr laughed.

“So then” he said after a moment “what is your read on my situation?”

“Well, I’m now doing as my good-sister is in trying to figure out a match for you.”

“That’s nice of you.”

“Well it is only fair, she did ask me first.”

Petyr’s expression froze and he stared at her, his heart pounding in his ears for a few moments and when he spoke he noticed his voice was suddenly shaky.

“Pardon?”

“She asked me first. She reckoned we would be perfect, and I almost said yes. You are a damned good man Petyr, and I know well how rare that is. A man who sings, not as a cynical ploy, but as a means to spread joy. One who stands for what he _should_ stand for. There is a lot to you that is quite attractive, and that’s before factoring in that you would be good to Jon as well.”

Petyr could feel his cheeks burning at this point, and while he tried to say something, he found his mouth had gone dry and instead of anything concrete, the noise he made sounded like a Mongolian throat singer. Finally, he coughed into his mouth, and spoke again.

“I notice” he said, ignoring the increasingly wide smile she was giving him at his discomfort “that you still said no?”

Her expression changed then to one of slight pity, and Petyr tried to ignore just how much that hurt.

“Yes I did. In another world, another time, or even if you were just in Gulltown I would say yes. But I can not go to King’s Landing. I can not be there, or anywhere near there, and more importantly than my own wishes, I will not have Jon near there unless I have to.”

There was a steel like resolution to her last few words, and Petyr suddenly understood why. He was not simply grasping on to anything to salve his wounded ego, he understood, hell, he understood probably more than she would believe.

“I understand Lyanna, and if it means anything to you, if this were another world or time, and you still felt me worth it, I would be honoured. But I can not simply tell Stannis to fuck off along with all of King’s Landing, like it or not, I now have a duty.”

“As do I, to my son and myself.”

They sat together in a strange familial silence then, neither looking at each other or saying anything for a long while, before Lyanna stood herself up and looked at him.

“Of course” she said then, the earlier joy returning to her face “that does mean any woman my good-sister picks will have to stand up to my high standards.”

“Has she found anyone yet?”

“Oh a couple of ideas. Some ladies of old houses that might be slightly getting on a bit and would be desperate enough, some ladies of great houses who could use an intelligent and non-threatening husband. I’m sure if she thought Elia Martell would be interested, she’d suggest a trip to Sunspear.”

Petyr let out a snort of laughter.

“And knowing my luck she’d duck out on the wedding day to be replaced by Oberyn in a dress.”

Lyanna threw back her head and laughed at that.

“Gods Petyr, you and that man really need to just get it over with. If nothing else, charge admission, I’m sure the audience would finance your endeavours for years.”

“I make enough money from shipping already thank you.”

She didn’t catch the double meaning, which was fine as if she _had_ Petyr would have been very confused. Instead he also stood up and looked her in the eyes.

“Either way, no matter how my future turns out. I do hope you would at least be willing to let me still write to you?”

Her expression became soft and she tilted her head to one side as she smiled slightly at him.

“Of course Petyr. No matter what might have been, we have what is, and that is good enough for me.”

***

It was only two hours after his conversation with Lyanna that some excitement was visited upon Winterfell. Petyr had been strolling back towards the main hall when he noticed a small group of armed men, some in black cloaks, some in others ride into the castle, and as the party dismounted he saw Alysanne Sands dash out towards the crowd. As the various armed men moved out of the way, he could see she was hugging a woman, and that could only mean one thing. Ashara Dayne embraced her daughter gently, spoke something to her and the girl moved away from her, and as she did, Ashara’s gaze moved upwards and Petyr felt it settle on him. Her reaction was to look slightly confused, and as she handed the reins of her horse off to Walder, she moved towards him.

“Lord Petyr?”

“Lady Ashara.”

“What are you doing here?”

She seemed to realise that what she asked seemed impolite as she opened her mouth to say something, but he spoke first.

“I came here with Ned. The war is over, and I needed to see Lady Catelyn about a matter. You?”

He knew why she was here, but being polite cost him nothing.

“I came to see Alysanne safely here, and then the events of the war had me trapped here. Not that the hospitality I received was negative mind you, simply that I would have preferred to be in my own home.”

“I see. Well there should be no impediment to that now, do you need to let Ned know you are here?”

“Yes, do you know where he is?”

“Not exactly, but I can think of a couple of places, and I was going to go bother him anyway. Shall we?”

He gestured in the direction of the main hall, and she nodded and fell into step beside him on his right as they walked.

“It is fortuitous that you are here Lord Petyr.”

“Oh, how so?”

“I get to thank you in person for once, for Arthur.”

He grimaced slightly and looked at her.

“I appreciate the thanks, though you have written them before, but I would avoid the topic of your brother here. As it is I already gave your daughter a terrible fright. She saw my scar and flinched away, but she was with Jon and Lyanna at the time, and well, she knows who gave it to me.”

Ashara said nothing as they walked, but he could feel the mood change slightly as she thought.

“Well with a bit of luck, she won’t be dwelling on it in the next few weeks. Things around here will probably get shaken up a bit.”

“Oh why is that?”

“Well Ned’s new ward will be arriving then, and between him, Cat and Lyanna, Yara Greyjoy is going to be tough work to fit in.”

“Yara Greyjoy?”

“Yes, it’s because of how the war ended. Essentially...”

His retelling of the events on Pyke, starting with Stannis’s judgment and moving to the other things took them into the hall, and were only slightly interrupted by them being informed that Ned was in the solar with Cat.

“And then I realised there was no-one else there to lead them, so I yelled at them and got them to follow me, at which point we found Stannis, and for my actions he gave me this cloak and a new job.”

They were outside the solar and Ashara was staring at him then.

“You saved the King’s life, and he put you in charge of the Royal Army?”

“Essentially.”

“Ser Duncan would be so jealous of such a tale Petyr.”

He shrugged at her response, trying to stop himself from smiling like a fool at her praise. Gods why was she having this effect on him.

“Either way, we are here, now beware, here there be wolves.”

He knocked on the door softly, and opened it to see Cat and Ned engrossed in conversation, a, thankfully awake, baby Arya in Ned’s lap with Sansa nearby playing with a wooden horse.

“Petyr” Ned said “can we help you?”

“Well more I was bored and wandering around when I came across someone who needs to see you, so decided to play page boy for a little while.”

With that he stepped into the room to allow Ashara to enter behind him, and as she did, she gave a slight curtsey to both Ned and Cat.

“Lord Eddard, Lady Catelyn, I am back from the Wall.”

“Oh good, you made faster time than I expected.” Cat said then, and some long remembered hardwired instinct in the back of Petyr’s mind came awake, ones that spoke of childhood pranks and schemes.

“That makes things more convenient. Petyr, Lady Ashara will also need to return to Dorne soon, by any chance could you get here there on one of your ships from White Harbour? Presumptuous to ask I know, but it should save her time, and give her company on the roads.”

“Ehm, I” Petyr said, looking between Cat and Ashara, “that is, if Lady Ashara would like me to.”

Ashara didn’t look at him, but was instead looking at Cat, and she spoke in a tone of voice that sounded slightly confused, but not upset.

“Yes Petyr, I think I would.”

At that, Cat smiled.

“A correct answer Lady Ashara, in many ways.”


	40. Chapter 40 - End of Part 2

**Chapter 38**

**Ashara II**

Her departure from Winterfell was not rushed, nor was it without courtesy, but while it would be unkind to say Lady Catelyn seemed happy at her leaving, it did not make it any less accurate. The woman had hosted her in her home for a _much_ longer period than originally planned, and while Lady Lyanna may have joked about Ashara remaining until Alysanne became a woman grown, anyone with eyes could tell that such a prospect had upset the Lady of Winterfell. It had been after that jape that she had gone to visit her brother, if for no other reason than to give Lady Catelyn some space, and she had found that while the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch was a kind enough host, the accommodation at Castle Black was lacking. Arthur was, well, not over thrilled to see her. Her brother was glad to still be alive, he had also become a ranger in the Night’s Watch, as both south and north of the wall already were lethally dangerous to him, but at least north of the wall it wasn’t personal. He had not said it in as many words, but that he still blamed her on giving away the location of the Tower of Joy, and Princess Elia in turn providing that information to Ned Stark, was as certain as the dawn in the morning, and with that knowledge hanging over their conversations, there had not been much joy to be had in familial small talk. That she had been leered at by almost every man in Castle Black had also been an uncomfortable experience, being leered at by men was nothing new to her, but this had been different, and had felt more like the worst days in the Mad King’s court than anything else.

Of course in her leaving Winterfell, she faced a challenge that nothing in the Mad King’s court could have prepared her for, and that was simply the pain and difficulty in leaving her own daughter behind her. That Alysanne would be safe and well cared for went without question, she may have been robbed of the opportunity to know Eddard as well as she may have wished, but what of him she did know meant that, on a cold pragmatic level, she knew that their daughter would be fine. However there was a world of difference between knowing something in her mind, and how her heart would react, and it had taken a lifetime of self control not to weep as her daughter was left behind her, thankfully the wheelhouse loaned to her by Lord Wyman Manderly had allowed her to hide herself from almost the entire world, making it easier. Almost that was, for the travelling companion she found herself with.

“Ow” said Lord Petyr Baelish as he started to rub his head “whoever built this thing needs to learn a few things of the differences between a living being and a bag of grain.”

This was not the first time since departing Winterfell that he had been thrown into a collision inside the vehicle, and Ashara couldn’t help herself and smile slightly at his discomfort.

“I can tell that you are not used to travelling this way then Lord Petyr?”

He didn’t flinch, but there was definitely a moment of reaction, as if he had forgotten she was even there, and his eye both darted to her and away from her as he changed his view to peering out the window.

“No Lady Ashara, I am not. I am no great horseman, but I would prefer to be on one than inside this box. Gods I feel like how Ned does whenever he steps foot on a ship.” He then turned his gaze back to her, and narrowed his eye slightly. “Besides, what is with this “Lord Petyr” business, I could have sworn I asked you to drop the formalities if we will be travelling together?”

“And yet you called me by my title in response?” She smiled sweetly with her retort, truth be told she hadn’t meant to cause offence by using his title, simply she was still getting used to his company, even if he was seated across from her and behaving as well as he could.

“It is a true knight’s prerogative to take a ladies cue on address” he said, giving her a slow smile of his own “and while I may not have sought out such a title, I do try to stick with it, at least in so far as being polite is concerned. If you’d prefer, I’ll just ignore your cues and call you Ashara, or maybe something shorter, Ash perhaps?”

He angled his head slightly and gave her a lopsided grin, and all at once a veritable flood of memories came pouring over her as she thought of the same man, younger, drunk as hell, and about to throw himself off a tower of Starfall, the same tower she had been preparing to throw herself off as well. Something in her face must have given away the memory as his expression changed.

“Did I say something to offend you? Was I too presumptuous, if so I am sorry.”

“No Lo-, no Petyr you were not, simply a memory came to me that I had not expected. I would prefer if you used my full name though, I am not comfortable with the shorter one, at least not currently.”

He nodded then, and his face took on a graveness that, while a poor imitation of Alysanne’s father, was still serious.

“Certainly, I understand Ashara.”

With that he turned his attention back out the window again, and Ashara reached for an abandoned embroidery that she had put aside earlier. Long ago, Princess Elia had taught her the fine art of using embroidery as a way to spy on others circumspectly, after all, most people would simply put a woman doing needlework out of mind, and not notice that their every move was being watched. So far, Petyr had proven no exception to this rule, and as he continued to watch the world pass them by, Ashara studied him as close as she could. He was a man that she both knew a lot about, and nothing. Their first encounter had been that dark night years ago, where they had prevented each others suicides, but if he had remembered it at all, he gave not a hint of recollection. In the time since, they had exchanged letters, simply a correspondence built out of his initial letter to her about Arthur’s fate.

Of course he hadn’t said anything about his role in her brother’s life in his letter, she had needed to find out in time from others after that fact, but when she had written to him to thank him for doing that, he had barely replied to that, simply choosing to focus on other things. They had written of minor things, of the joys of parenthood, of simply the words of people conversing over long distances, but all the while that was true, she had heard snippets of other things. He would write of his daughter, and she would hear of his ships. A letter complaining about a roofing tile giving way would arrive along with news that he had fought a raging inferno. There was much within both to learn about the man, and yet, still more left to wonder about. He was, with the exceptions of Lord Renly and Masters Edmure Tully and Jaime Lannister, the most eligible bachelor in all of Westeros, but all rumours said that outside of the proof of his daughter, the man seemed to lack any interest in a wife. Although Princess Elia had, in her letters, assured Ashara that he was not seeking a male companion instead, much to Oberyn’s amusement. The Red Viper had long ago realised that, but took too much pleasure in playing with his head to ever relent.

“Something amusing?”

She looked up from her needlework to Petyr, he had moved his head slightly, and was looking at her with his good eye.

“Oh nothing, just a private joke from a friend.”

He simply nodded at that and went back to staring at the world, and as he did, she took another look at his face. The first thing that drew attention was, of course, the scar her brother had left him. It ran from just above the end of his lip to below his scalp, partially hidden by the patch over his left eye, it may have been faded in the years since they had last met, but it was still a nasty looking thing.

“I still get the occasional twinge from it.”

His voice came abruptly, but his head did not move. He spoke softly enough, and as he did his left hand came up to gesture at his face.

“Of course, compared to when it was fresh, that is nothing, but every now and again it can ache just slightly.”

“I did not mean to stare” she said then “that was rude of me.”

He turned to face her then.

“I’ve long since gotten used to it, besides I’ve been stared at by worse people.”

There was a brief flash of _something_ in his eyes after that remark, and he swiftly looked back out the window again, and Ashara couldn’t prevent a slight giggle from escaping, something she noticed with satisfaction caused a _slight_ blush on his face to appear.

“I have though” he said, his voice a bit quick “debated wearing something else to distract peoples attention from the scar. Maybe a big sign that says “don’t mention the scar” or some such.”

“If I may offer some advice from someone who has been stared at for a long time by people, you are better off leaning in to that than trying to ignore it. Accentuate the feature you want people to see, so they don’t see the others.”

“Have no form except that which the enemy perceives, and strike then from an angle they can never comprehend.” He gave her a smile then. “I mean, that’s warfare, but essentially the same as what you were saying?”

“You are aware of the saying of the similarities between love and war Petyr?”

“Aye, all’s fair in it.”

“That, and that deception plays a vital part.”

He laughed then, and she couldn’t help but join in, and when he finished he looked at her with a mirth filled eye.

“So, what should I do then, to accentuate the feature?”

“Hmm, how about an eyepatch with an eye upon it?”

“Oh? To make it look like I constantly still have an eye there.”

“Well, you could have more than one, perhaps different eyes to convey different moods?”

She spoke the words slightly teasingly and he started laughing again harder at that.

“Oh aye, I can just ask his Grace to give me a moment while I change patches to reflect moods, gods he’d probably _approve_ of that.”

He spoke between laughs and short breaths, and as he finished he started to laugh harder again, almost doubling over. It was almost worrying, but he eventual subsided, and gave her a slight bow.

“Gods, but I needed that laugh, thank you Ashara, for that. Also for the idea, an eye may not be what I would go for, but maybe some form of decoration would do.”

“I’d say you house sigil, but I must confess, I do not see a head of the titan of Braavos fitting.”

“No, it would be a bit garish. I can think of something else though, and I may have to look into the idea. As it is, my house’s sigil is liable to receive a change soon anyway.”

She gave him a slightly confused look.

“Oh, are you going to try to have it changed?”

“I thought about it, but no, that would be somewhat disrespectful to my grandfather. He may not have left me much of anything, but he left enough for it to give me a chance. No, I was thinking a simple alteration is all. One of the eyes, covered with a patch.”

***

Arriving in White Harbour was a welcome reprieve from the road travel, and also a rather different affair than her previous visit. Then, Lord Wyman had been polite, and indeed a welcoming host, but in comparison to that he was downright exuberant this time. Petyr had shared with her his trepidation about entering the Merman’s court, not out of concern or fear, but simply because he seemed to have had a much stronger idea for what the Manderly’s hospitality would be when they were truly hosting a person. What had followed had been a veritable feast of a meal, one rich with meats and cakes, with wine and beer flowing like something out of a great tourney. She had watched Petyr’s own reactions to the whole affair, he had been sat beside her on her left, he had eaten, and drank while the whole time telling tales and japes to those who engaged with him, though if he did either to excess she didn’t notice, and as the night had worn on and she had retired to her chambers, her last sight of him had been re-telling the events off the Arbour, and he had clearly had a captive audience as he spoke. Compared to that, the version of him she saw this morning was a somewhat more miserable man, in that he was trying to shield his eye against the light and rubbing the side of his head. They were approaching the wharves of the city then, and Petyr’s misery did not seem to relent as they moved onwards.

“Lord Petyr, ser?”

A voice spoke loudly then, and Petyr’s reaction seemed to be to screw his eye shut hard and wince, and Ashara turned to the source of the voice to see a young man, probably one to whom the title “boy” was more applicable, stand looking up at them at the head of a small party of rough looking men.

“Yes lad” Petyr said, his voice hoarse after a few moments “what is it?”

“Captain Chot’s respects my Lord, the Grey Falcon is ready to receive you, and your party aboard.”

“Is this one of your famed ships Petyr?” Ashara asked, softly enough, and allowing just the slightest tinge of interest into her voice.

“I’m afraid not” Petyr said then, his voice still hoarse “Grey Falcon is one of the brig types I have doing the North to Gulltown line, I would hope one day to replace her with a runner, but for now, I’m afraid it is a more conventional vessel home.”

With that he turned his attention to the young man and the men with him and gave instructions, ones that the group hopped to accomplish as he disembarked himself from the wheelhouse that had brought them to the wharves. He turned then to offer Ashara a hand down, and she accepted it gracefully, and without missing a movement slipped her hand into the crook of Petyr’s elbow. He gave a slight start at that, but looked at her then, and she gestured towards the sea.

“Lead on Lord Petyr, if you would.”

***

“And what exactly is it you plan to do with the Royal Army?”

They were roughly half way through the journey to Gulltown, according to the captain of the vessel anyway, and the weather was nice enough that Petyr and Ashara were seated out of the way on deck. Two of her brothers armsmen were nearby, not intruding of course, but close enough to action in the event of anything untoward happening, around them sailors went about their duties, and Petyr gave her an evaluating look at her question on the topic at hand.

“Well that depends, do you wish for the short and sweet answer, or the long and technical one?”

“There are leagues between here and Gulltown, a short answer would hardly help whittle them away would it?”

She gave him the sort of smile she had used countless times in her life, and the effect was no different now as Petyr smiled back and let out a brief bark of a laugh.

“Fair enough. Well” he spoke as he settled himself on his seat a bit “the truth of the matter is that I do not have a complete and full picture of what I have planned yet. I am no mystical creature that can see the future entirely, as it is though, I have three broad areas I need to deal with. I like to think of them as the three “L’s”. Logistics, Leadership and Location.”

He held a hand out then, and curled his index finger as he spoke again.

“Logistics, I have a pretty strong handle on. I may not be a gallant knight charging into the heat of battle, nor some great tactician and strategist, but knowing how to feed men, make sure that the food is there, and the countless other little things required to keep an army fighting fit in material goods, that I can do. And with his Grace’s blessing, I have a few ideas that might make my task a lot easier while also generally doing a few other useful things as well.”

“Such as?”

“Well, consider the state of the roads. Some of them are alright, like the Lion road or the Rose road, even the Northern road is alright until you hit the Twins. However, there is definite room for improvement, drainage, paving all that good stuff. Now, combine that with a series of rest points at pre-determined lengths along the roads, ones that serve as a combination of barracks, inn and possibly even trading posts. A hub for local economies, one that would pay back the money invested ten fold in no time.”

His voice was filled with an eager enthusiasm, and she couldn’t help but smile at the earnestness, but as she thought on his words, she saw something.

“Apologies Petyr” he had been about to speak again and had begun to curl in his middle finger “but would I also be correct in seeing that such an action would also the Royal Army be protecting these roads? You did mention a barracks after all, it is just I could see such an action also serving to allow the army to have troops throughout Westeros.”

He stared at her then for a moment, and she thought that she may have given offence, but when he spoke his voice was not angry.

“That, as well. Naturally to police such a territory, it will need an expansion in size. A very astute observation.”

He spoke slowly and softly, his voice tinged with, what to her ears sounded like honest praise, a different thing than honeyed words she heard before, and a distinction she had learned to make when still only a maiden. When he continued on, he smiled at her widely and warmly.

“Of course, such a force though would need to be a damn sight better than the Goldcloaks, otherwise at the first sign of trouble every lord and master of a one mile square plot of land will be screaming for my head. Hence the Leadership issue, luckily, I think I will be alright in that regard.”

His smile turned into something more akin to a cat with a fish than anything else, and she could tell he was waiting on her to ask, so she tilted her head and pursed her lips.

“Hmm, perhaps, but a minor lord from the smallest plot of land with mercantile interests is likely to rub them the wrong way.”

The words had their desired effect, and she had to prevent herself from laughing as she practically saw his ego deflate before her, and he threw his hands up in surrender.

“Your words my lady, oh they doth grievously wound me.”

He put a tone to his voice like a mummer in a play, and she couldn’t prevent the laugh it got from her, and when she looked back at him again, he was smiling again, looking at her. For a second she met his gaze, and she saw within him something akin to Eddard’s own eyes outside Harrenhall years before, but then he seemed to catch himself and look away. It was not lust, nor naked desire, simply a look of total and full adoration, and she felt happy to have seen it. Eventually he looked back at her, coughed slightly and took a drink from the cups between them, something he had called “lemonade”.

“Yes, well, in that regard I had to find someone else’s prestige and ability to hide behind, especially while they help me batter the poor fools who will be commanding the men in this army together. Thankfully, Ser Barriston should be up to the task, if not, well, that’s another bridge to cross.”

At the mention of Ser Barriston Selmy’s name, Ashara’s mood dampened a bit. The older knight had thought himself some sort of protector of hers when she had been in the Mad-King’s court, he had done what he could to help her, tried to direct her from paths that might have lead to suffering the wrath of the Mad-King, and generally had acted almost as a love-struck boy as opposed to man many years her senior. He had even attempted to woo her after the events of Robert’s Rebellion, seeking to ask her brother for her hand in marriage after his own confinement had ended. She had not the heart to reject his advances on her own, and had done so through letter. She had never led him on, never acted like he was anything other than a friend to her in those days, and she hoped that he would, in the fullness of time, move on to someone else.

“That brings us though” Petyr’s voice said, rousing her from her ruminations “to the third consideration, and the one that will be the trickiest for me in the short term. Location. Stannis wants the Royal Army somewhere close and easy to access, the problem is the options for that are short. That is, short of me just busting down the doors of the Dragonpit and sticking everyone in there, though after centuries of neglect I dare say it would be slightly more hazardous than it would have been if actual dragons were inside. Taking over the Goldcloak barracks in King’s Landing, while appealing, would just cause more headaches in the city than it is worth.”

He spread his arms out then and shrugged slightly.

“So that leaves a few other options, but only one I see as practical.”

“Oh?”

“I’m going to ask his Grace permission to trim back a few acres of the Kingswood. More than just a _few_ if I am being honest, and to turn over a lot of land on the southern bank of the Blackwater.”

“Not a small proposition Petyr.”

“No, it is not. But the facts of the matter is that if I am to build _anything_ resembling a permanent home for the Royal Army, it needs to be more than some haphazard field camp. Essentially, I will have to build an entire town, just one built around catering to and housing the Royal Army. In the long term it will pay itself off, of that I am sure, but the question though, is how to sell it in the short term. Not that I fear selling it to his Grace mind you” he said, looking out to the waters “just the Hand and the Master of Coin might have problems enough with my plans, and I’d rather not have to run roughshod over them to achieve them.”

“At least not until you have to?”

He chuckled wryly.

“Until I have to, aye. Or at least until I can do so without fear of too much retaliation.”

He stared off then, looking at something only he could see, and while she didn’t mind the silence, she couldn’t help but ask a question.

“And is that all you have planned for the future Petyr?”

“Hmm? Oh no, that’s the most bare bones version I can think of right now. The actual doing will be what fills things out as I’m sure a million and one little things will work against me between now and then, but that is what is going to make the Royal Army a challenging time to command. Especially when whatever things happen in Gulltown that I will have to deal with as well. Not taking on troubles by halves, that’s not my style.”

“And your own future, that is the future of Petyr Baelish the man?”

He didn’t respond to her at once, simply stared off into the distance, and when he finally did speak, it was in a soft tone that she had to strain to hear.

“I’m still figuring that out. Damn the rest of the world and myself along with it.”

***

The weather turned sour as they approached Gulltown, and in the close confines of the captains cabin, Ashara could see that Petyr was becoming increasingly nervous as the time went past. She had asked him about it at one point, but he had jokingly replied about the desire to sleep in his own bed again and left it at that. Eventually, he stood up from the seat he had been struggling to sit still in and started to pace the cabin, pausing only to look out at the dark surroundings that the small windows in the cabin allowed. Finally, she could take no more of the pacing and as he stepped near her, she reached out and grabbed his nearest hand. He recoiled at her touch slightly, but she didn’t let go, nor did he try to pull away, simply he stopped what he was doing and stared at her in total surprise.

“Petyr. It is alright to be nervous, but please, there is only so much pacing I can watch you do before wondering if you’ll walk through the floor.”

He looked at her for a moment in confusion, and then embarrassment.

“Apologies, I am nervous and anxious and a whole lot of other things at once. I’m so close to being home, and I can’t stop thinking that something is going to go wrong.”

She opened her mouth to say something, but was interrupted at a knock on the door into the cabin, and the wet form of the ship’s captain framing himself in the doorway.

“Apologies my Lord, my Lady, but we are entering the harbour of Gulltown now. Tide is a bit choppy, but we should be tied up at quayside in the next few minutes if you wish to prepare to disembark. We’ll have your things sent along as soon as the ship is settled.”

“Thank you captain.” Petyr said, and the other man stepped back out and closed the door behind him.

“Well then” he said after the door closed “we should get things together and be ready to go. If my instructions made it here in one piece from White Harbour, there should be horses waiting. A shame about the weather, but the ride to the house isn’t a long one.”

He started to walk away, towards the small collection of things he had to travel with, but stopped when he almost pulled Ashara out of her seat, he looked down then, and only then seemed to realise he was still holding her hand.

“Ah, sorry” he said letting go and moving away “I forgot.”

He turned from her rather hurriedly then and busied himself with his things then, Ashara couldn’t help but smile as his face had been just _slightly_ red as he had turned away.

***

The waves were indeed strong as they disembarked the ship, and Petyr had needed to assist her down the plank of the ship, whatever embarrassment he felt at holding her hand before, gone in the face of needing to stop her from falling into the water.

“I swear” he said over the sound of the rain and waves “first thing I am doing tomorrow is designing a bloody staircase for this sort of thing.”

She didn’t reply, instead focusing on the group of men that stood by horses in front of them. They were armed, and in armour, and at their head was a man with a Summer Island complexion holding the reins of a horse and looking very serious.

“Qo?” Petyr said, moving towards the group. “What the hells are you doing out in this weather?”

He spoke with a jovial tone to his voice, but he must have noticed the other armed and armoured men as he spoke, and his pace dropped off quickly.

“If it was up to me my Lord, I’d be back in the house wrapped around a fire. However the weather isn’t the only foul thing at the moment.”

“Were is Pol?” The words came out with a speed and intensity that caught Ashara off guard as Petyr quickly strode forward to take the reins from the man he called “Qo”.

“Safe my Lord. She’s in the house, with more than a few armed people there watching her. However I feel we should move there swiftly.”

Ashara looked over at her brother’s armsmen, the ones that had come off the ship and had now fallen into a protective loose semi-circle near her, and waved her hand to signal to him to stay close, that done she stepped forward quickly.

“Petyr” she said “is everything alright?”

Petyr started to say something, but Qo spoke first.

“Everything is fine oh vision of the stars” he said with a wide smile “however, while my Lord has been away, some have attempted to change that.”

“They have, have they?” The words came out from Petyr, almost conversational and calm, and Ashara realised that unlike when Eddard went cold, or her own brother's stern, Petyr seemed to become as calm as a snake when angered, as she saw in his face and body, the expressions of a man barely containing fury.

“Ashara” he said then, turning to her “I’m afraid you will have to excuse me if I don’t give the full tour on the way back to the house, I think master Qo needs to inform me of a few things.”

With that he turned from her and mounted a horse rapidly, and as she and her brother’s men mounted up to follow, she realised that the pace he set the group was somewhat fast as he stayed close to Qo the whole time they rode through the city. They cleared the cities walls to what seemed to be another city, or at least the outlines of one in the dark, and quickly the buildings with lights inside faded into buildings with no light, and then clearly under construction. The road at least was not flooded nor muddy, and as they passed the last of the buildings, Petyr fell back from Qo and seemed to ride alone for a few moments. Seeing an opportunity to find out what was happening, she spurred her borrowed horse forward to beside him, and looked towards him.

“Petyr” she said, but before any more words could come out he held a hand up to her palm out, and she stayed her words. They rode on for a few minutes before he finally spoke.

“I apologise Ashara” he said “it is just that Qo has given me some disturbing, if predictable news.”

She looked at him then, and he had on his face the expression of a nearly broken man. She had seen a similar expression on his face once before, when he had been drunk and about to throw himself from a tower, and she felt worried then, worried to her very core. She knew she couldn’t show it though, so instead she steeled herself for a moment, and words from her mother came to her from long before she had even left to serve Princess Elia.

‘ _Do not be afraid to tell a harsh truth if it might save a life.’_

“You do that too much” she said then, allowing her voice to be tinged slightly with annoyance, and he looked at her sharply “apologising. Almost every time we talk you seem to apologise to me for something you think you’ve done wrong.”

“I’m sor-”

“No.” She cut across him as he started to speak. “If you need to apologise for something, I will inform you, one way or another. I am far from some young maiden incapable of knowing herself, or how to deal with an accidental slight.”

“I’m just trying to be considerate.”

“Well then, be considerate of my opinion on the matter, and stop it. I do not know what you have been told, and whether you choose to tell me or not is up to you, but right now I know two things. The first, is that something has happened, and it is something to stress you, and that is all I need to know to accept whatever your behaviour is now to a point. A point I will inform you of if you cross it. The second is that you have a daughter waiting to see you, and while I can only inform my opinions based on Alysanne, I can guess that she is going to want to see her father, and not a worried, angry man. So sit up straighter, stop apologising for everything, and show your daughter you are home and safe. You can worry when your children can not see you.”

She had not meant to lecture the man, but she had, and he looked at her for a long moment before nodding slowly.

“I understand Ashara, thank you.” Was all he said, and while they rode on in silence, he did seem to sit up straighter in the saddle then, and what little she could make of his face became something more akin to the man she had travelled with these last few days, and she couldn’t help a sense of satisfaction at that.

***

They arrived, eventually, at what Petyr informed her was Baelmanor, and while it definitely was not a Keep with walls, she could appreciate that it was not some small crofters hut either. Instead they handed off the reins of the horses to a man who stood nearby, and bowed to Petyr as he took them.

“I’m glad your home my Lord.”

The man said as he took them, and Petyr placed a hand on the mans shoulder.

“I’m glad to be home Edmure. I hope all is well with your family?”

“Aye my Lord, and thank you from keeping the boy out of the war. Lad’s too soft for some of the things he’d need to have seen.”

Petyr said nothing in response to that, just simply nodded and turned from the man. He started towards the doorway before them then, and it opened to spill golden light out onto the ground and Ashara saw a lump move at high speed towards him, and he quickly kneeled to intercept it, lifted it, and spun it around into a tight embrace.

“Hey kiddo” he said then, his voice soft and warm, and Ashara had to struggle to hear it “I’m home.”

“I’m glad father. I missed you a lot.” The lump said, and Ashara felt both warmth at the display, and a small amount of heartbreak over Alysanne. Petyr carried his daughter forwards into the light, and Ashara, as well as the rest of the party, moved in behind him. The first thing she noticed inside the house was how bright it was, the lights around being provided by a series of oil lamps and fine candles. The second thing she noticed was the _warmth_ , and to her embarrassment she realised she must have spoken something out loud as Petyr turned to her, and while lowering his daughter to the ground gave her a smile.

“Yes, the house is heated by a series of pipes and some clever architecture. I may not have a natural hot spring like Winterfell, but a few large fires and sufficient tanks of water are enough to make do. Now, if I may, Lady Ashara Dayne, may I introduce my daughter Polgara Baelish?”

He stepped aside, and the young girl, clad in what appeared to be rain clothes, curtsied towards her, and then looked up at her with sudden fascinated eyes. Violet eyes.

“A pleasure to meet you my Lady” she said, her voice the same as any other girl her age, but then she paused, and turned to Petyr.

“Father,” she said, slowly “I thought my surname was Baelkin?”

“A lot of things have changed Pol, and among them is that your father did a favour for the King. One that he has repayed by granting me a simple request. The request my daughter not be tarred with her parentage any more.”

The girl just stared up at him in confusion, and he crouched down to look her in the face.

“Your surname is now Baelish Pol. As it would have been if your mother and I had married.”

She gasped then, and flung herself into her father again, and as she did, the rain hood over her head came loose, and Ashara saw her hair. It was on the shorter side for a girl, but in the light of the entrance hall it looked almost white. But to someone who had Ashara’s experiences in life, she realised it was silvery, and it took every ounce of self control that she had learned over the years of the Mad-King’s court to keep herself from making any exclamation. Between the hair, and the eyes, she took another look of the smiling face of the girl before her, and she saw it. The resemblance wasn’t too strong, but there was no mistaking it if one knew the subtle signs to see. If the girl was not a Targaryen, she was definitely related to them.

“Petyr” she said then, forcing her voice to be calm “would you mind if I am seen to my room? It is just I am soaked from the ride and would appreciate the opportunity for dry clothes.”

“Oh yes, certainly. I can have a warm bath set for you if you would like?”

“Yes please, that would be appreciated.”

She needed to get away from the situation, to think, to plan.

***

The girl couldn’t be a Targaryen, but the resemblance was too damn strong. If she was one, then what in the Seven Hells was she doing here, being Petyr’s daughter? If she wasn’t, then how the hell did she look so much like one. Yes, Petyr had said she resembled her mother strongly, and yes, he admitted she had strong Valyrian features as a result, but there was strong Valyrian features, and there was _strong_ Valyrian features. Ashara’s own violet eyes were evidence enough that the eyes could carry across generations, but the eyes and the hair? As well as the general Targaryen shape to the face? How?

The thoughts racked her brain as she dried off from the warm bath, she still wasn’t sure what to make of all this. Suddenly everything was confusing. She had been prepared to meet the girl, but there was a difference between some assumed child of Petyr and a Bravossi courtesan, and one who looked like Rhaenys, but with the silver hair of the rest of old Valyria. It changed things.

‘Does it though?’ A part of her thought ‘He’s still a good man. A daughter is a daughter, it might be nothing.’

‘Yes’ another part thought ‘but it might be everything. Gods blessed, we were _falling_ for the man.’

She paused then as she dressed, and shrugged, there was no point dismissing her feelings or lying. She had been falling for Petyr, _had_ fallen for him if she was truly honest. He was both all the parts of Eddard that she had appreciated, of men in general that she had appreciated, and something else entirely. A man who didn’t view her simply as a potential mother of children, or entertainment between sheets, but as a true friend and, above all else, an equal. He had not once dismissed her, treated her as anything but a full human being, he was simply the best possible husband she could have possibly sought, especially as the years continued to go ever onwards.

But how could she still be willing to stick with him if the girl was-

There was a knock at her door, and Ashara jumped slightly, and then chastised herself for it.

“Enter” she called, and she expected a maid or some such to be delivering something to her, instead the person who entered was probably the last one she wished to talk to.

“Lady Ashara” Polgara said, peeking around the doorway “my father wished to tell you that dinner will be served soon.”

“Please, come in completely. I am not scary.”

The words came automatically, not planned, not considered, just the words of a woman confronted with a small child that seemed scared of her. And she only realised she had said them as the girl entered the room fully and looked up at her. And as she did, she let out a little gasp.

“Your eyes” Polgara said “they are like _my_ eyes.”

“Yes, I inherited them from my bloodline. It is an old one, and many Valyrians married into it over the centuries.”

“Is that where mine come from? Valyria?”

The question was asked with the wonder and fascination that only a child could muster, and despite her reservations, she smiled down at the girl.

“It could be. Do you know much of your mother?”

A dark cloud seemed to pass over the girls face, and she looked down at her feet then.

“No. I think I remember her sometimes, but I think it isn’t true. Father told me I look like her, but that is all.”

She hugged the girl. She was on her knees, her arms around the child in a loose but affectionate embrace, and she had done it before she even realised she had, and the surprise from the child prompted her other response on instinct.

“Hush, it’s alright. I didn’t mean to upset you. I have my own daughter, and she has eyes just like you as well. Her name is Alysanne.”

It seemed her instincts had been correct, as she looked at the girls face and saw the edge of tears that had been about to form. She needed to keep her mind off the matter, so she spoke of her daughter.

“She’s a bit older than you, not much though. You are what, seven name days old?”

The girl nodded at her, her expression fascinated on her.

“Alysanne is nearly eight name days. She will be turning eight in two months. She loves to make her dolls dress up and to tell stories. Do you have things you love to do?”

“I like to play with the ravens.” The girl said, smiling a bit “although I don’t let Father know, because he thinks making me help the Maester with them is a punishment. Can you keep that a secret?”

Her expression became one of mild panic then, and Ashara smiled a genuine warm smile down at her.

“I will. Is there anything else?”

“Master Qo is teaching me how to use a sword, just like he and Father.”

 _That_ was a surprise, but the parts of Ashara that had known House Martell approved. Hell, even she had received _some_ training in holding a sword, even if that had just been to play with Arthur when he was younger. But the girl seemed truly happy to say that.

“Oh, and how does that work?”

The discussion of how Polgara was learning to train with a sword lasted through her getting dressed, and as she walked down to the dining hall, Ashara found she was being led by hand through the manor, having everything and everyone pointed to her by the child. Eventually she arrived in the dining hall, and Polgara let go of her hand to head straight for the head table, where Petyr was sat, conversing with Qo on his right side. Polgara sat on his left, and he looked up from his conversation to smile to his daughter, and then he saw her. He smiled and stood then, and as he did, Qo cleared the seat beside him and moved away, Petyr walked around the table, and then came towards her.

“Lady Ashara” he said then, and she acutely became aware that the others in the hall, the various servants and their families had stopped what they were doing to watch him “if you would do me the honour of dining beside me? It is not quite to the Manderly level, but I do think we here at Baelmanor can put on a good meal when the occasion calls for it.”

He held a hand out to her, and she smiled, and curtsied slightly.

“Certainly Lord Petyr” she said, and took his hand to stand beside him, and then slipped it into the crook of his arm and walked beside him to the head table.

The attention of the others didn’t waver, and as she was lead to the table, to sit on the other side of him from Polgara, Petyr held his hands up to the hall.

“Before we eat, however, I wish to offer a toast. To the fallen, for they alone shall know true peace.”

***

The meal was quite satisfactory, and while it was not the excess of the Merman’s Hall, it was definitely obvious that the staff had decided to put a serious effort in to put the best foot forward for House Baelish. And it was not long after it, she found herself walking back to her room, Polgara insisting on leading her back again and asking her all sorts of questions. The girl was just like Alysanne in that she wished to know everything about the world, but couldn’t settle long enough on one question to absorb an answer fully. Finally, they were both back in her chambers and Ashara instructed the girl to sit on her bed while she prepared to comb her hair out. It was bizarre, she had spent so much time in close proximity to the child, that her concerns over who the girl might be, had almost evaporated. She was not some Targaryen, or some such, or if she was it didn’t matter, she was a child, much like her own, and should be treated as such entirely. She looked up from where she had packed away her combs, and saw that instead of just sitting on the bed, Polgara had slumped over on it, and was now gently snoring.

She walked over to her then, and instead of disturbing her, moved a blanket over her as carefully as possible, and then moved out of the room, silently as she could. Yes, the girl was just a child, and if she was to spend nine months out of the year in King’s Landing, quite possibly spend time in the court of the King and Queen itself, what she looked like was going to be a hindrance to her more than any pre-conception of bastardy. Even if she was not a Targaryen, even if it was simply a case that she looked like one, in the same way that House Velaryon occasionally produced members who did, it would still be as if painting a target on her back. And that would mean that taking her into that, unprepared, would be as cruel as beating the poor girl, and Ashara found she was unwilling to allow that to happen.

So she set off in search of the girls father.

***

A maid quietly showed her in to Petyr’s study, with the assurance he would be there shortly, and Ashara sat herself on the other side of a wide desk. The room was spacious and well lit by lamps and candles, it was warm, but there was a draft that caused her to shiver as she felt it across her back. On one wall hung a broken shield and a longsword, the shield with the sigil of House Baelish on it, the sword had no distinguishing features, below them again a fire burned softly in a hearth. The opposite wall had a couple of glass windows that gave a view outside, but now the outside was simply darkness, occasionally punctuated by a flash of lightning in the distance. Finally the fourth wall in the room was a series of shelves, books and scrolls and papers stacked within them, and as she looked around and waited, the draft picked up again, and she looked to see that the door she had entered in was still shut. Curious, she walked over to it, and found that the draft did not seem to be coming from it, after that she checked towards the windows, and again, found a draft wanting. As she walked back though, she felt it stronger on one side, and turned towards the wall with the shelves, and noticed something. One of the shelves was slightly more forward than the others, and curious, she pulled on it slightly, instead of a heavy solid weight however, it swung open easily and silently, and she saw beyond it, a corridor that was black.

She was about to close the door on the passageway when she heard a voice from the end of it, Petyr’s voice. And curious to get to speak to him quicker, she took a candle from the study, and started down the corridor, seeing a ring pull on the back of the entryway, she closed it behind herself and walked down the corridor. Soon it changed into a spiral staircase, and she followed it down, the sound of voices coming slowly closer and louder, and after a small distance further, she saw a light ahead, and as she approached she realised it seemed to be coming from a barely open door. She shielded the candle against the doorway and was about to push it open when she heard the noises beyond properly. It was a man coughing badly, and some instinct stopped her from opening the door.

“Alright then” Petyr said, his voice calm, and almost jovial “it would appear that we are finally getting somewhere.”

She looked through the slight crack in the doorway, and could just make out Petyr sitting on a chair, an apple in one hand and a knife in the other.

“So, you” he pointed at someone she couldn’t see with the knife “are saying that you were only hired to disrupt the construction of the new warehouses. _Maybe_ start a bit of a fire. Is that it?”

“Y-yes, my lord.” The voice that spoke in response was shaky, and while she couldn’t see the person responsible, it was clear he was exhausted, and spoke with a slight King’s Landing accent.

“Ok then” Petyr sliced a bit of apple off “assuming I believe you for even a half of a second, then would you care to explain to me how you wound up in possession of copies of shipping manifests from the Narrow Sea Trading Companies offices? Inquiring minds wish to know.”

“Ehm, well, that is.”

“Bran.”

Petyr said the word with total nonchalance and the man let out a brief cry, and Petyr moved enough that Ashara could see past him. A man was tied down to a table, over his face was a cloth of some kind, and one of the men who had been with them at the dockside was pouring a bucket of water over the cloth.

“You know” Petyr said then “it is a _very_ uncomfortable and painful torture method. But well, you leave me little choice in this regard Mr Slynt. Now I’ve been where you are, I experienced it myself so that I would know exactly how it feels. So I’m going to be a good man and give you an opportunity. Would you like an opportunity Mr Slynt?”

The person on the table coughed and hacked, and eventually spluttered his response.

“Yes my lord.”

“Good. The opportunity is this Mr Slynt, you get to leave here alive, you might even get to start a new life when I’m done with you, but that opportunity has a short window Mr Slynt, and soon it will be closed. You see, I don’t really _care_ about the job you were hired to do, no, I’m _much_ more interested in who hired you. So, describe them to me will you?”

“It was an older man. Greying red hair, about slightly taller than average but a bit of a limp. Spoke with a funny accent, not foreign, just Valeish.”

“A Valeish accent? Like mine?”

“No my Lord, you don’t have a Valeish accent.”

It was a different voice that spoke that, and Ashara guessed it must have been the man Bran.

“Yours sounds somewhere between a Riverlander and King’s Landing man at times. A little Valeish sometimes, but not enough to truly be one.”

“Really?” Petyr said, “I would never have thought that Bran. What do you think Qo?”

“I think all you lot sound the same to me.”

The fourth voice came from just the other side of the doorway to where Ashara was, and she had to fight her initial reaction to jump in surprise at how close it had sounded.

“Fair enough, but that’s getting away from the point. Mr Slynt, any other distinguishing features you wish to describe?”

“N-no my Lord.”

“Hmm, I have to say that description _could_ fit Mr Brown, if he was affecting a limp as cover. Either way, I think it is time that a visit was payed to him?”

There was no immediate response, to Petyr’s question, and he chuckled then.

“Well, either way, Mr Slynt you have earned your opportunity. I will need you to transcribe a confession to my Maester here, and then make your mark if you would be so kind. Of course, that does not conclude our business, but instead of staying here, you will be moved to a different place until I have need of you. I trust you understand that given the severity of the charges, I will be needing to keep you close to hand? Don’t worry, you will be cared for where you are going, just a piece of advice, don’t try to escape, the gaolers there may not have cells for you, but they know the area better than you do your hand. Bran, take him to his cell if you’d please.”

She saw the man become untied, and the cloth removed from his face, he was a man who clearly had been hungry for a while and was balding, and he looked thoroughly miserable and wretched as he was led away.

“So, he was Grafton’s bright idea?”

“Probably Petyr, at least if it was Mr Brown who paid him.”

“What was that daft old bugger thinking. Trying to find something to use against me in those offices?”

“He could have at least hired someone with ability.”

“True Qo, true. Either way, the lack of quality will be his undoing now. Anyway, bring me one of the wretches who tried to snatch Pol from here, I think I’ll actually _enjoy_ this one.”

Petyr’s tone sounded jovial as he spoke that last sentence, and Ashara found herself transfixed, unable to move, as she saw another man led towards the same table, he struggled but was tied down, and the cloth put over his face.

“Now” Petyr said then “you will have a single chance for me not to kill you in the slowest and most painful ways I can imagine. It’s not now, that will be after a bit of light vengeance from me, for you see, you did the stupidest fucking thing. You threatened my daughter. And that requires me to send a message.”

“Bring on your worst, I will say nothing.”

"Oh if I had a stag..."

Petyr then chuckled, before he could speak Ashara heard the sound of a door opening, and she saw someone, a woman, move over to beside Petyr. It took her a moment to realise it was the same maid that had led her to Petyr’s study, and when she spoke Ashara could not hear what she said.

“Hmm. It appears that I have a different matter to attend to, so I’m afraid Mr Cole, you will be left in the capable hands of my employees here. Keep him going till I return please gentlemen, I want his opportunity to come from my lips alone.”

With that Petyr stood up and turned towards where Ashara had been standing, and she realised he meant to come this way. She didn’t want to be found here, not right now, no, she looked down at the candle that had burned down a bit in her hand, but didn’t hesitate to move as quickly as she could back in the direction she had come, covering the light of it as best she could. She caught a glimpse of light coming down the corridor she had fled as she made her way up the stairs, and hoped she got back to her seat long enough to calm her breathing. Her mind raced though, and she realised she knew exactly how she wanted this conversation to go now. She barely managed to act natural when the door she had entered in opened, and Petyr stepped through, whistling a song to himself as he did.

“Boo.” He said as he stepped through. “I must ask you not to tell Pol about this door, last thing I need is her searching the whole house for secret tunnels.”

“Oh, and where does that one lead Petyr?”

He smiled at her.

“The place were all the refuse goes. Anyway, Janyce says you wished to speak to me about something?”

“I do, or rather I did. But I must admit, I do not appreciate you lying to me just now.”

She stared at him then, and his face was frozen then as he looked back at her.

““The place where the refuse goes”. No Lord Petyr Bealish, that tunnel leads to what, your torture chamber?”

She flicked some wax off her hand then, and continued to stare at him.

“I am a noblewoman Petyr. I am not some fair princess of a story, I know the necessary parts of the world when I see them, and what you were doing is nothing but that.”

His expression finally changed a bit, and instead of the frozen smile that had been there, it settled into a calm expression, except his eye, which narrowed in concentration at her then.

“I would apologise, but you had words with me about that before.”

“Yes, I did. It would appear that I am needing to have many words with you right now. Words that are helping to wake me up to the reality that is Petyr Baelish as opposed to the version of you I had constructed in my own head.”

“Oh? And what was that version? Kindly and polite, a noble knight of circumstance who keeps falling into things backwards?”

“No. A capable man who can do what he needs without being a monster in this world. One who, frankly, I would very much like to marry.”

 _That_ caught him off guard, and his expression became one of total surprise, even his eye opening wide, but before he could respond she carried on.

“Of course, that was before I met your daughter. Gods above Petyr, there is a world of difference between “resembles her Valyrian blood-lined mother” and your daughter. _I’m_ Valyrian descended, she’s basically a Targaryen sans the dragons. Hells, she could be a Blackfyre. Do you have even the _remotest_ idea of what you are going to be putting her through in King’s Landing?”

Petyr’s expression became calmer again, but when he spoke, it was with an edge of caution.

“I was going to leave her here, keep her away from the viper’s nest.”

“That would never be accepted. Like it or not, you are about to become involved in the politics of King’s Landing in a big way, and that goes beyond simply _you_. It includes your family as well, and if you try to keep her away from it all, you will only serve to annoy the petty tyrants and monsters who inhabit the courtly life. To say _nothing_ of the pain that such a separation will cause her.”

“Now hang on, you think you get to tell me how to raise my daughter-”

“Yes, I do. You are not the only parent in this room. And I actually _know_ the pain that goes into leaving a child behind somewhere you don’t want to. To be separated from them, and I was doing that under the best of possible circumstances. And if she is left here, what happens if someone else tries to take her, like that man at the other end of that corridor?”

Petyr gave her a hard stare then.

“No-one else will do that. I assure you. By the time I am through with the ones who hired that man, no-one will ever fuck with me or mine again.”

“Again, you are wrong. Oh no-one around here might not, but with where you are going? The heights you are facing? Tell me, do you honestly think Gregor Clegane was sent to “secure” Princess Elia? You were there.”

“It would be the last thing Tywin Lannister would ever do in this life.”

“Good luck convincing him of that. You need to be prepared that things are about to get a lot harder, and that girl is about to go through hell.”

He stared at her for a long moment, then he stood up from behind his desk and walked over to the shelves, there he picked up two drinking glasses and a bottle of amber liquid, setting them down on the desk before him. He opened the bottle, poured the liquid in to one and then motioned to her in offer, and she nodded, that done he poured into the other glass and pushed it towards her. She smelled it first, and it smelt of strong alcohol, and while she had trepidation, she watched him knock his glass back in one go and started to copy him.

“Don’t” he said then “whiskey is a sipping drink. I did that because I’m used to it.”

He poured himself another glass as she sipped the liquid and felt it burn its way down her throat and into her stomach. He said nothing then, just grunted, sipped at his own drink and swirled it around then, finally he spoke, but he did not look at her.

“You said I was a man who knew he didn’t have to be a monster in this world? How about now? After whatever you saw down there?”

She snorted then, and he looked at her then.

“I lived and served in the court of the Mad-King Petyr, if there is one thing I know, it is monsters. You are like Eddard in many ways, a tough man, one loyal to his family, but not a monster.”

He looked away from her again, sipped from his drink, and then spoke again.

“So what do you suggest then?”

She shrugged.

“What I already mentioned. Marriage.”

He started in his chair and gave her his full attention then, but before he could speak she held one hand up, and spoke softly, curling her index finger inwards as she did.

“Logistics. Selling the story of Polgara’s mother will be a lot easier if everyone and their brother can point to me and say “Well at least he has a _type_ ”. I am, if I may be immodest, a not unattractive looking woman, and if your daughter truly has the blood of Valyria running through her veins, it will be necessary for me to help instruct her on how best to avoid everyone and their brother subjecting her poorly over her looks.”

She curled in her middle finger.

“Leadership. You are, frankly, a novice at court politics. Oh you were raised well, but there is a not enough words to describe how different King’s Landing will be from Riverrun. Even if you attempt to be a completely apolitical player in the game, it will not matter, as you will need to play the game. With me at your side, you will at least have some experience to make up for what you are missing. I'm sure you will learn quickly, but first you need a teacher.”

She curled in her ring finger then. And he gave her a half smile.

“I can’t wait to see how you factor location into this.”

She smiled back.

“Love. It can come in time, but frankly I have seen how you act around me, and while it is not quite like a young boys infatuation, you are certainly attracted to me, even if you do jump every time I so much as touch you. I, to be honest and frank, am attracted to you, I have been to some degree since the night we first properly met. Though I do believe you do not remember that encounter, I shall not forget it. And frankly, your actions since then, and how you treat me, has only made that attraction stronger since then. Bard's story it is not, but I tried that once, it didn't end well.”

His expression had become very puzzled again, and she put her hand back down and took a sip from her drink and spoke again.

“Of course, I have conditions to any marriage between us. The first, is that I will expect you to negotiate a _very_ generous dowry from my brother.”

She smiled at him as she spoke, and he tilted his head to one side and gave her a lazy smile back.

“How generous?”

“Oh I won’t tell you, just know I’m imagining a number, and if it is so much as a penny below the arrangement is off.”

He laughed. “Deal. The next one?”

“If we are to have daughters, I want it to be both of them. I know the deal I made with Eddard eight years ago. That was then, this will possibly be the future. I want Alysanne.”

Petyr nodded then, his expression more serious.

“Of course. Is there anything else?”

“No, I think I will instead take my leave and let you mull over my proposal tonight. Though I will need a new bed, I’m afraid your daughter is sleeping in my one.”

“Yes, that sounds like Pol. Cat like tendency to sleep wherever she wants. Ask whichever servant you see outside, they will bring you to one. And if I say no to your proposal?”

She smiled at him as she stood up, he followed suit and soon was standing across from her.

“You won’t.” She said, and walked towards the door from the study, she opened it, and stopped to look at him

“One quick question, the song you were whistling as you came in, does it have a name?”

“Yes. Singing in the Rain, why?”

“Condition three. I get to hear any new songs you come up with first.”

And with that, she left the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this marks the end of the current batch of chapters that are written and cross-posted. I will be adding more to this story in time, just there will be waits between it as various other commitments tend to sap up my time.
> 
> I'll also try and respond to any comments anyone may have now.


	41. Interlude III - The Agreement

**Interlude 3,**

**The Agreement**

If there was one advantage to being the, quite literal, Lord of his not-quite a castle, it was that if Petyr decided he was going to sit his tired body down in the kitchen, no one was going to say a damned thing to him. Granted, it was late enough at night that the majority of the day’s work was over and done, so he wouldn’t have to worry about possibly disrupting anyone, but still, even if it was in full swing he would have been left alone. Well, figuratively alone that is, the reality was that he was sitting here with Qo, Bran Knapper, Maester Thyman and Elyna Mason. The veritable Mrs Knapper, mother to Bran and essentially a whole Roman Legion worth of children, was also present, but unlike the others who were disturbing her domain by being there, she was working away at a soup from the leftovers of the previous nights dinner. She was also the only human in the room who wasn’t watching Petyr and waiting on his reaction, and that was welcome as he instead continued to brood and tried to focus the roaring torrent of emotions and tiredness within him into something resembling calm. The spit dog who’s head was currently in his lap and he was scratching behind the ear was helping in that regard, not for the first time he resolved to actually get some sort of pet. He could pretend it was for Pol.

Realising that his thoughts were now firmly into the wandering category, he sighed deeply and closed his eye, that done, he looked up at the collection of individuals who formed his, for lack of a better word, inner circle.

“Right. Firstly, I want Mr Brown picked up as soon as is practicable. Make a big deal out of it if necessary, but I want him here and talking in record time. Grafton is sentimental to the old fool, so _hopefully_ he isn’t currently face down in the breakwaters. Let him know that if he flips to my side, that he can keep whatever cash he has hidden away and can get the fuck out of my city alive. His actions weren’t too personnel, and so I’m liable to be lenient.”

As he spoke he stared at Bran Knapper, eldest child of the Knapper clan he may be, but ever since Petyr had literally pulled his neck from a noose, the man was loyal without fault, probably assisted by the fact that the matriarch of the Knapper family knew they had a good thing going here. He tended to serve as Petyr’s equivalent to the Grafton’s “Mr Brown”, that is his go to man for all things sharp and pointy in quiet alleyways. Bran, in response simply nodded, and waited as Petyr debated his next orders. Unlike the Grafton’s attempt at simply trying to find something to undermine Petyr’s fiscal operations, and possibly some light arson, the never sufficiently damned Gulltown Arryn’s had tried something a bit more direct.

From what he had been able to gather out of the man he had down in his dungeon, they had been sent to kidnap Pol, and to deliver her alive and as unharmed as possible to Mr Red, the chief knife man of Lady Jeyne Arryn. Of course, much like Mr Brown that wasn’t his real name, but that didn’t matter too much, as Mr Red was not going to be getting out of Gulltown alive, the question was in what shape.

“Mr Red is to be picked up tonight. I want him here, under lock and key, and I want his signed confession on my desk before the end of the week. That done, Thyman I’m going to need you to help me craft the language on my declaration to the Eyrie and to Jon Arryn to be as air-tight as possible. If we are airing the laundry for that bitch, then I want to make sure no one can happily ignore it.”

Maestar Thyman was a younger man for his Maestar’s chain, but that didn’t mean he was incompetent. Petyr was, naturally, cautious about the possibility that the man’s allegiances were to Oldtown and not to him, but he reckoned so long as he didn’t act too out of sorts for a typical Westerosi noble, he wouldn’t have to worry about upsetting the powers that be in the Citadel. That Thyman actually supported Petyr’s “Gulltown University” project, and Petyr actively overlooked the other man’s experiments and research, was just icing on the cake. And unlike Bran, a simple nod of the head would not be enough from the Maester.

“You understand my Lord that there is a strong possibility this won’t have any real difference to how the Gulltown Arryn’s operate? What they have done may be heinous, but they are still kin to Jon Arryn.”

Petyr smiled slightly at the response before he spoke.

“Of course, but with a bit of luck Jon will be able to warn that bitch that if she tries anything else ever again, he’ll look the other way when I kick down her door, drag her into the street, and bathe in her blood while her ancestral house burns before her still living eyes.”

Thyman looked taken aback, but a deep chuckle came from Qo at Petyr’s descriptive choice of language.

“Apologies for the mental picture Thyman, but I’m very tired, and she tried to harm my daughter, so I’m a bit peeved over the matter.”

“I understand my Lord, but still...”

“Waste of perfectly good blood that. Would be better used to make a pudding with.”

That observation came from Mrs Knapper who was not even looking up from the pot she was busy at, and Petyr let out a howl of laughter.

“An astute observation Mrs Knapper, I’ll make sure to collect it in a bucket instead?”

“If y’d take the time to milord.”

“Either way” Petyr said as he turned his attention back to the people seated around the small table with him “I want to make sure this goes down perfectly. If Jon Arryn refuses to do anything about it, I will drag this before his Grace and the Master of Laws, and while I’d rather not have a big falling out with my Liege lord over this, making it a subject he can’t quite sweep under the table should take care of the issue while giving him enough cover to take whatever actions he needs to. I want it completely drilled into those fuckers heads before I have to spend the next decade split between here and King’s Landing. Gulltown belongs to House Baelish.”

There was nods all around then, and Petyr allowed himself to relax slightly. With the subjects of House Grafton and House Gobshite Arryn taken care of, or at least his reactions to their most recent round of idiocies, he’d hopefully now be able to slink off to his bed for the first time in far too long and sleep. There was nothing else he needed to worry about thankfully.

“And will you want this sorted out before or after the wedding my Lord?”

Petyr felt himself freeze in place.

‘Ah yes’ his thoughts reminded him ‘ _that_.’

“And which wedding would that be?” He said, allowing his voice to go calm and show no emotion, the desired effect was had as Elyna Mason, his head-maid, stopped smiling at once and took on a more cautious expression. But before she could speak again, she was interrupted by Qo.

“Well my Lord, if you have no interest in the walking beauty taken form upstairs, do you mind if I make a pass then?”

The Summer Islander smiled widely at his remark, but his eyes were not smiling, and Petyr saw in them an expression he knew from sparring with him for the last number of years. He knew he had Petyr read, and attempting to faint or deceive was not going to work.

“You _could_ try Qo, but I think Lady Ashara would say no.”

“And why is that my Lord?”

“Well she is already taking strolls late at night to find our Lord.”

Petyr turned his gaze back towards Elyna again, and now buoyed by the seeming alliance with Qo on this matter, she was feeling more confident in speaking on matters that Petyr wished she would not.

“And what makes you think that my discussion with Lady Ashara involved the possibility of marriage in anyway?”

“Because a woman like that with an expression like that is either seeking a hand or a head my Lord, and you are still breathing.”

Petyr just glared harder then, but he could feel his heart wasn’t in it, and his underlings clearly also felt it wasn’t as smiles started to spread amongst them. He was about to say something when a steaming bowl was put in front of him with a hunk of day old bread beside it.

“Bran, say one word and I’ll make you wish your father still breathed. Qo, Elyna, hush your damned fool mouths before he gets angry and you forget your places even further.” Mrs Knapper spoke from Petyr’s side as she placed a simple wooden spoon down beside the soup. There was no heat in her voice, just a calm certainty, and considering Bran literally blanched, at least one of the people she spoke to was certain she could carry out any threat that was implied in her tone. She then turned to Petyr and nodded slightly.

“I reckoned you could use the food my Lord considering you haven’t been able to rest in your own bed at least since coming home. And if I may, whatever was discussed between yourself and Lady Ashara is your own business and yours alone to deal with.”

“Thank you Mrs Knapper, for both the meal and the opinion.”

That said he spooned up a small bit of the soup and tasted it. It was, naturally, divine. Mrs Knapper couldn’t do anything too fancy, but what she could cook she could cook well, and the soup was testament to that.

“How is it my Lord?”

“Delicious as always Mrs Knapper.”

The coppery haired woman gave another, deeper nod of her head then, swept her gaze over his companions, and returned to her work then.

“Well then” Petyr said after two more spoonfulls of soup “unless any of you wish to try embarrassing me further, I think we are adjourned for the time being. Elyna, Bran, I will still need you to make an assessment of which staff should be coming with the family to King’s Landing, outside of your other tasks with regards to the other matters. Qo, I still want you to get in touch with my factor on the ground in King’s Landing about suitable lodgings, Thyman you will assist him with any paperwork that needs to be dealt with. So if you would like to retreat to your own beds, I’m going to finish this food and try and enjoy what of my morning is left.”

***

Naturally, he couldn’t sleep. With the other issues resolved, the major one of the consequences of his earlier conversation with Ashara came back with an almost admirable patience, and the strength of Robert Baratheon on a good day. He knew now, he had been _completely_ swept up in the moment, and he found it difficult to be too hard on himself over it. Sex may not be something he wanted, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate aesthetic beauty, and even a blind man would concede that Ashara was, indeed, _quite_ aesthetically pleasing. Dark hair, an almost perfectly oval shaped face, dark purple eyes with a wicked intelligence and wit hiding within them, and the sort of body that some ancient Greek sculptor would have based a statue of Aphrodite on. She also was capable of being her own person. And it was her personality that had earned his respect and bowed him over, more than anything else. Oh she could be polite and prim, the very picture of what was expected of a Westerosi noblewoman, a veritable social butterfly he was certain, hell at the time he had not particularly enjoyed his lecturing by her on how to appear better when he returned home, but from the joy on Pol’s face at seeing him, he knew she had been right to try and put his worries away for a moment. And it had been that lecture that showed underneath all the superficial stuff, there lurked an ability to read and manipulate a situation to her will, and from there a deep hope within him had sprung. One that, if nothing else, he could guarantee that unlike any of his other prospects, she was unlikely to just roll over and become a trophy wife for him, and that she would hopefully treat any potential marriage as it was supposed to be, a partnership between equals. And that intrigued him far more than any other possibilities.

But the issue of those possibilities was the rocks upon which his giddiness to metaphorically jump into bed with her were dashed. Sure she met some, hells, most of the criteria he sought for, but he still barely knew the woman. They had exchanged letters, but he didn’t know what made her tick, what motivations she had. He had no damned clue how she would react when he informed her that the idea of having sex with her held nothing more than maybe some secondary appeal to him? Like, if it made _her_ happy, sure, but it wasn’t like he was going to be going out of his way to pursue it. Would she take it as a total aversion to intimacy on his part? If she did would he simply be just setting them both up for a lifetime of misery, and what would give him the right to condemn her to that? So many questions, so many he’d fought with before and lost against before. Just this time he couldn’t simply argue the point till it became moot with himself. Gods damn Jon Arryn and Stannis Baratheon and their bloody deadlines. Times like this he wished he had his own version of himself, someone to do as he did to Ned Stark and every other idiot nobleman in Westeros, someone who could stand around, listen, and tell him what to do next.

“Ok then” he spoke softly aloud to himself “let’s try this then. What would _I_ say if this was Ned?”

There was no sudden revelation of an answer to his hypothetical question. After all, it might be easy to see the flaws in others logic, and to help them into the way that best benefited Petyr AKA the _right_ way, but introspection was much harder as no-one knew _your_ flaws quite like your own self in a dark place. But, he suddenly realised, he wasn’t _quite_ coming into this blind, no, he had seen something similar to this exact situation before. Granted, it wasn’t anything like the same gravity to it, but he _had_ said something to Ned in a situation very similar, and the same words came back to him from over nearly a decade.

“ _Well then” he had said, the bandages from his scar still aching as he sat in a Starfall bedroom “and forgive me for being blunt Ned, but why don’t you just, oh I don’t know, bloody ask_ her _?”_

***

Someone in the staff must have made the decision to let him sleep in, as it was near mid-day when he finally roused himself out from his bed, and after a brief bathing with a cold basin and a cloth, he dressed and left his bedroom. His plan for the day was simple, the first step being breakfast of some sort, the second being to try and talk to Lady Ashara quietly in one of the few spots in his home he knew there would be no prying ears at. Naturally, von Moltke was proven correct once again in life when he had two of the younger Knapper’s go flying past him and Pol collide into his legs at a high speed. The fact that she did so with what, for a child of her age, was a serious curse word of “damn” meant that while he was trying not to laugh the whole time, he was stuck with lecturing parent mode for a while. That done, he continued his quest for breakfast when Qo intercepted him and informed him as to how the snatch and grab on both persons of interest had gone down in the hours when he had been asleep. This meant any plans for food were put on hold and he found himself down in the dregs of Baelmanor getting filled in on the situation for the guts of two hours. If he had been thinking, he would have sent for something to eat during that time, but his thoughts were primarily focused on the twin-snakes of “vengeance” and “not starting a war with Jon Arryn”. This meant by the time he left the cellar turned dungeon, he was famished. Naturally, that was when he came upon Ashara.

He was only a short distance to the kitchens when he rounded a corner and came face to face to where Ashara was being interrogated by Pol. Granted, his daughter was less “hard-boiled detective” and more “overly-curious child”, but it was still basically an interrogation.

“No it doesn’t rain that often in King’s Landing” Ashara was saying from where she was sitting next to Pol “usually it is rather warm in the city outside of the winter months.”

“I see” Pol said, nodding vigorously “but if it doesn’t rain often then where does all the water come from? And what about the frogs?”

Ashara’s expression took on a bemused expression then that was, to Petyr’s reckoning anyway, the multi-universal ‘Oh god, how do I answer this child’, the one that everyone got after a long enough session of answering children's questions. Luckily enough, Petyr had since mastered the art of how to end a stream of constant questions, well, at least how to do it without being a massive prick.

“Well that depends” he said, approaching the pair “do you want the boring adult answer, or the better child answer?”

Pol just smiled then, she knew this game as well as he did at this point.

“The boring adult answer please.”

“Well then, find a boring adult to ask them.” He chuckled slightly as Pol simply stuck her tongue out at him in response. “However kiddo, I need to talk to Lady Ashara for a bit, so how about you go ask Maestar Thyman about the frogs?”

His Maestar was a deft hand at dealing with Pol’s questions at this point, simply because he would fob her off on the ravens, and Petyr would pretend to not know that Pol liked playing with the birds. “Ok father, I’ll go. Goodbye Lady Ashara.” Pol, in credit to her, had the decency to try a mini curtsey, even though she wasn’t wearing a dress, and left the two adults alone as she scampered away.

“Your daughter” Ashara said after a moment “does you a great credit Petyr. Given another two decades and she would probably manage to be the most capable Master of Whispers this realm has ever seen.”

Petyr looked at her and smiled a bit as he cocked his head to the right.

“For that to be true, she would need to learn subtlety, and that is some distance off yet I’m afraid.”

“Perhaps, but did you really chastise her for using a “naughty word”?” She over emphasised the words in question and Petyr couldn’t help the smile on his face growing a bit more.

“Aye, I did. “Knowing when to swear and when not to swear is a skill boy, with a bit of luck you won’t need too much persuading to master it.””

The quote came from his lips easily, and Ashara gave him a quizzical look.

“From your father?”

“No, a little something I call “Childcare lessons from the Blackfish”. Though my take on it didn’t involve a switch being involved.”

Painful memories of being chastised for swearing in Riverrun were thankfully few and far between, as for his experiences in a different world, the punishments had been more in the line of physical labour.

“Well then Petyr, what is it that you wish to speak to me about?”

The words were perfectly polite, and delivered with a slight, knowing smile, but still the hit him like a bucket of cold water, as once again he found he _really_ wasn’t looking forward to this. Then again, the same could be said of Stony Sept, Pyke, or any of the other damned foolishness he had gotten involved in, so he took a moment to mentally centre himself, and looked at her again.

“It involves the topic we spoke about last night. Though if you wouldn’t mind, I’d rather not speak on it here. I know a few places in my home that offer privacy, and while it isn’t particularly grand, the garden at least decreases the chances of us being overheard.”

She looked at him for a moment smiling, but something in his face must have given away the inner difficulty he was having with all this, as the smile was replaced with a more serious, but not unfriendly, expression and Ashara stood up and moved to his right.

“Lead away then.” She said, and as they started to move away she slipped a hand into the crook of his elbow, and he was proud of himself for not jumping with surprise or flinching at her doing it this time.

***

The “garden” at Baelmanor was less a pretty picturesque thing as it was a collection of heather shrubs, some more hardy pine trees and a few patches turned over to the cultivation of vegetables. There was also a few apple trees, though the fruit they produced was more suited to cider than eating. However, located within this place was a gazebo, and while hardly a new and innovative design in Westeros, its placement among the small garden was definitely peculiar.

“I must admit, seeing a weather-keep this far north is unexpected.”

Ashara said as Petyr led them both towards it, and he allowed himself a brief grin at the Dornish name for it. He didn’t know where the word “gazebo” came from, but like so many other things in Westeros, he just found the different names bemusing.

“Yes, though it is more designed to provide shelter from the rain and wind on the few nice days in the year for outdoor gallivanting that Vale weather allows.” He shrugged then, mindful of her hand in his elbow then. “I saw the idea near Plankeytown, and in Essos, so it made sense to me to put one here.”

“It also allows for a great degree of privacy. Out here in the open with clear sight of the approaches to it.”

“Aye, that too.”

He said nothing else then as they approached it, and after a brief sweeping of where some leaves had settled on one of the wooden benches, he motioned for Ashara to sit, and after she did, he placed himself in a way to face her.

“I.” he started, and then stopped, he hadn’t really put much thought into how exactly he was supposed to speak about this, and as he looked at Ashara’s expectant face, he felt himself freezing up. He closed his eye then, and felt his body tensing up.

‘Come on you dumb bastard’ he thought ‘if after everything else in this hellscape you have had to deal with _this_ is what beats you, what fecking chance do you have against Slushy Hitler?’

He forced his body to relax then, and slowly reopened his eye to look at Ashara, who was watching him patiently.

“With regards to what we talked about last night” he said, his speech slow and cautious “I feel that, in light of the matter at hand, some things will need to be clarified. I have some conditions of my own, and if for whatever reason you feel you can’t abide them, I will understand.”

Her expression became more wary then, but after a moment Ashara simply nodded for him to continue.

“The first condition is one I think you will have no issue with, even if I hadn’t already seen your interactions. Like how Alysanne is your daughter, Pol is mine, and as such she is non-negotiable. If we are to be married, you will be her step-mother, and while I’m too cynical by half to imagine you will get on like some child’s bedside story and all will be perfect forever, I will need you to accept that at the least, I expect her to be treated well. Not to be spoiled, as some of my ship’s captains like to do whenever they bring her back a gift, but to be treated as a child of our marriage, same as any other would be.”

Ashara gave him a slight smile then before she spoke, and when she did her tone was soft and reassuring.

“As if I could treat her any other way. In much the same way I know you would treat Alysanne kindly, you can be assured I would treat Pol as if she was my own.”

He had been sure that would be her response anyway, but still he felt as if a slight weight had been lifted off his shoulders. Granted, it wasn’t anything compared to the massive weight he still felt, but all things are relative, and even a few moments reprieve is welcome to a condemned man.

“The second condition is, again, one I don’t feel the need truly to say, but for the sake of making sure things are clearly understood, I will. If you will honour me by being my wife, I will expect you to know I intend for it to be a partnership of equals. Granted, for the sake of appearances we will probably have to do and act in certain ways in public, but behind closed doors, I want there to be no misunderstanding that if you think I’m being an idiot, you tell me, and in return I will do my damnedest to listen to you if you do. But to the rest of the world, we are and always must be a united front.”

She nodded in response to him, and after a moment when she said nothing, Petyr closed his eye and took a deep breath. Christ he would prefer to be facing a different member of House Dayne right now armed only with a sausage and determination than prepare for the final part.

“Condition three” he heard himself say, though thankfully in a non-possessed sense, “will be with regards to, if I may be blunt, sex.”

He didn’t look at Ashara directly, instead he looked away from her towards a tree somewhere in the middle distance. He knew if he looked at her, he would not be able to keep it together, just as he knew if he tried to dance around the topic, he would be here for hours with nothing gained.

“I’m going to have to ask you don’t interrupt me until I am finished Ashara, but this is a painful and difficult topic for me to speak on. I am not, or at least I extremely rarely, am a man who wants to engage in sex with anyone. It is simply something that on most days is uninteresting to me, and on some-days is straight up repulsive. If we are to be married, you need to understand this going into a marriage, that it might mean I _never_ share our wedding bed in that particular sense. That is not, and let me totally clear here, any reflection on _you_. It is just a thing within me, and I would not wish to condemn you to a future of wondering about it because of my own cowardice.”

He stopped then, but still didn’t look at her. His speech had sped up and he was finding tears were starting to form in his right eye as so much pent up emotions started to bubble through, and his head was starting to hurt.

“As such, if you decide with regards to the third condition that it is unacceptable, you will understand what I mean when I say I get it if you can’t abide by them. But I will be damned if I don’t at least put the major points out there and-”

His rambling was interrupted as he found himself suddenly embraced on the left side. He didn’t know how to react to the sudden human contact, and between the already bubbling medley of emotions and the unexpected interaction he found he didn’t know how to react, and for a few moments he simply wasn’t there. He couldn’t recall those few moments, but when his grip on reality had returned he found himself in an embrace with Ashara who was murmuring soothing noises to him, and gods did it feel good to be held by someone for the first time in nearly ten years. He allowed himself to calm down, to enjoy the sensation for a few moments, and slowly, reluctantly, he pulled himself away from her, and after clearing his throat, he regarded her then, and smiled bitterly.

“You must think me a mess.”

He said it looking at her then, and she looked at him with her smile, but one that for all the world may have been the sun for the warmth it gave him.

“No Petyr, I think you only human. If that condition is all that has caused you that much suffering, then know this, I accept all three. If I wanted to marry a man because he would be some beast in the bedroom, that would have been an easily arranged thing. All you have done is describe a political marriage, but one where everyone knows everything going into it.”

She shrugged then.

“So what if you feel we will never make love? We already have two children, and you said it yourself, it is a rare thing, but you do still sometimes desire it. I am a patient woman Lord Petyr Baelish, and one of my own conditions was that you accept love will come in time. If that means an intimacy without sex, then so be it.”

He wanted to protest, to reiterate that any sexual desire was almost totally non-existent. But some part of him, some part in the murky abyss below was telling him to simply shut up and accept what she was saying.

‘She is smart, she is beautiful, and she is at least trying to be understanding’ said that part of him ‘so for once in your life just shut up, stop doubting and say yes.’

“I-if” he said, his voice stuttering slightly as he fought to control his emotions “if that is how you feel on the issue, that you can accept the conditions, well then.”

She looked at him, and reached for his left hand. He didn’t flinch as she took it, instead taking some comfort in the feeling of her thumb rubbing against the top of his hand.

“Not the most romantic proposal in history.” She said, her voice soft but her gaze never leaving his.

“No, it is not” he said, his own doubts and anxiety dying a bit as he felt an awkward smile break into his face “but I do have a habit of making the right choices by ass-backwards methods.”

She laughed at the joke, and Petyr joined in, enjoying the feeling of the laughter within him, and when he stopped he looked at her then.

“Do I take it then, Lady Ashara Dayne, that this is a yes?”

“That depends Lord Petyr” she said, an impish smile coming to her face “entirely on you getting the right dowry from Alyn.”

***

The news of the betrothal being _somewhat_ official had kicked off a nearly festive mood in Baelmanor, with Pol’s realisation she was getting a sister being probably the height of it as she proceeded to optimistically ask Ashara for every detail about Alysanne that she could get, and thankfully didn’t start asking the more awkward questions about _how_ her soon to be sister came into being. It had lent itself to a very pleasant week where, between the other work he had cut out for him, Petyr had found himself actually getting to know the woman he was to marry, and when it was over, with her heading back to Starfall with Petyr’s dowry request to her brother, he had honestly found himself slightly depressed. However, instead of allowing himself to fall into old habits, he had thrown himself into his work, and after three weeks of near non-stop writing and action, he felt himself as best equipped as possible to travel and present himself before Stannis. A single month being all that was needed to sort out the worst and most pressing issues had not been what he expected, but when he found himself in the early morning debating with himself as to whether a Royal Army rank should be “Colonel” or “Commander”, he knew he was officially stalling. He had a raven sent to King’s Landing to expect him on the next ship inbound, and along with Pol and the members of his household that would be travelling with him for the nine months a year, he had boarded one of his ships south. The journey had been in pleasant weather, and Pol had fun on the ship as it travelled, though she hadn’t enjoyed Qo’s training on a moving vessel, though none of the crew was foolish enough to mock her for her inabilities at seaborne combat, or if they did, they did it where Petyr couldn’t hear.

This meant that when the _Foul Wind_ tied up at quayside in King’s Landing, Petyr was in a rather good mood. Which was lucky, as he quickly noticed that there was a welcoming committee waiting, and it didn’t seem a happy one. There was four distinct groups standing around, and from how they reacted when he came into view, it was obvious they were waiting for him, except one which was still staring at a different group.

Those were the Goldcloaks, and they were armed, armoured, and milling around with what Petyr couldn’t help but think was near criminal intent, and they were looking hard at the group of brown-cloaked Royal Army men that, to their credit, where pointedly ignoring them. The other side of the Royal Army group where a collection of men in normal dockside clothing, with one exception in modest, but well made, clothing who Petyr recognized as Thom Mott, his factor in the city and a distant relative to a certain blacksmith. This would be a group of his employees, and clearly they had decided to stay away from the two armed groups, though Petyr would be shocked if they themselves weren’t somehow armed. The fourth group was the smallest, made up as it was of four men, but the particular men meant it was probably the most important group, and so as the gangplank was laid and Petyr tried to look dignified in his scampering across it, it was this group he strode to.

“Ser Barristan, Ser Davos, Ser Allard.” Petyr said to each of the men while nodding to them, if Barristan appreciated the respect at being addressed first, he didn’t notice it, instead simply bowing his head slightly in acknowledgement. The knights Seaworth were somewhat more emotive, with Davos giving him a slight smile and Allard bowing his head in a more respectful manner. With the noble company out of the way, Petyr turned his gaze to the other man, and tried not to laugh as he _slightly_ shrunk from his gaze. Deciding to prolong Bronn’s suffering a bit longer, he faced the men who were, in theory anyway, serving under him.

“Has there been trouble with the Goldcloaks?”

Allard said nothing, deferring to Barristan who nodded before he spoke.

“Yes Lord Commander. A few brawls here and there as the Goldcloaks haven’t appreciated the presence of our men in the city. Couple with the quarters we’ve been keeping not exactly being perfect and poor morale leading to issues, and I’m not surprised they are shadowing any man in a brown cloak. No blood drawn yet though.”

“Inadequate quarters?”

“A few different Goldcloak barracks that were taken over on order of His Grace. They are cramped, but a decent enough fit. Some of our lot are camped out in the Dragonpit as well, though I’ve tried to rotate it out so that every man at least gets a night out of the Pit to sleep. The married men are finding it the hardest as keeping wives in barracks or the Pit is not particularly popular.”

Petyr could feel a headache forming already, and he wasn’t five minutes off the ship.

“I see, I’ll talk to His Grace about this at once. While I do that” Petyr said as he took a bundle of parchment from a folder in his left hand “these are you orders for the moment Commander Barristan. Included is an overview of the table of organisation the Army will be using, your rank is below only mine, and if anyone gives you crap, refer them to me. Take Lieutenant Allard with you as you go.”

Barristan nodded, took the parchment and walked off. He still didn’t like Petyr, but Petyr didn’t care so long as the man was a professional, besides, Petyr didn’t want to have too many things piling up on him.

“Sergeant-at-Arms Bronn. Please see to it that, what I’m assuming is an honour guard” Petyr said waving towards where the Royal Army group was standing “is ready to move out momentarily, I’d rather not keep his Grace waiting.”

The reaction from Bronn was one of surprise as Petyr gave the order without turning more than a bit towards him, but he bowed his head and scampered off towards the group of brown cloaked men, looking only _slightly relieved_ to be getting away for now.

“Davos” Petyr said turning to the old former smuggler turned king’s chief errand boy “I assume you are here as more than just a friendly greeting?”

“Aye Lord Commander, that would be correct.”

Petyr let his face take on a pained expression.

“Don’t start calling me by titles man, please? Gods we’ve been over this.”

“Aye, that we have. But I’m here on request of His Grace to make sure you are before him as swiftly as possible, and as such he felt certain formalities needed to be kept. That and he reckoned I’d appreciate some time to talk with my son.”

“Very well, though I am expecting the moment we are not respecting formalities for you to drop all those bloody titles, understood?”

“Aye. Though I feel if I don’t let that merchant talk to you soon, he’s liable to explode.”

Davos nodded towards where Thom Mott was visibly fidgeting, and Petyr sighed.

“I’ll need a few moments, domestic issues, and then we are off, is that alright?”

“Take all the time you need Lord Commander.”

***

The Small Council was, well, small. The only people present when Petyr had been ushered into the room were Jon Arryn, who was sat in a chair beside the King, the badge of the Hand clearly visible against his sky blue doublet, and the King himself. Petyr brought himself to attention as best he could beside the table.

“Your Grace, I am here to commence my duties.”

Nothing flowery, nothing overly dramatic, and the instant approval in Stannis’s eyes again reiterated to Petyr why he liked working for the man so much. Keep it simple and straight forward, and Stannis wouldn’t demand anything more.

“Very well Lord Commander Petyr” Stannis said, and then pointed at a seat opposite Jon “take a seat.”

Petyr moved towards the indicated chair, stopping only to take his brown cloak, which he had donned on the way to the Red Keep, off again and draped it over the back of the seat, that done he placed his folder with parchments on the table and sat down to look at the two older men.

“So then Lord Commander” Stannis said “have you taken care of what was requested of you?”

“Yes your Grace. I have here my proposals about the composition, disposition and organisation of the Royal Army” he padded the folder “of course I am expecting that what I propose and what shall be in reality are likely to be two different things, as I have yet to hear of a plan that survives contact with reality unchanged, but I am hoping that it will suffice for the immediate needs?”

Jon Arryn turned to look at the King, who did nothing but nod slightly, and in the silence Petyr felt the need to press on.

“Primarily, I do wish to discuss the issues of accommodation” he opened the folder and went for the point in the parchment he had marked with a blue feather “as I understand it the forces are being kept within the city, as such if you would read over the proposal I have for a permanent base of operations, I feel any issues with regards to the current situation should be best dealt with promptly.”

Jon Arryn for a moment had an expression of dismay and looked at Stannis, but the King nodded and motioned for Petyr to carry on, and considering which of the two men now actually paid Petyr, well, in theory anyway, Petyr launched into his plans and ideas as best he could. Granted he wasn’t going to propose _everything_ he had come up with today, but the immediate stuff needed to be gotten out of the way, and considering the issues Barristan had already informed him of, “Permanent Accommodation” had been pushed up to the top of the list. By the time he finished discussing everything with Stannis, the sun had notably moved a bit in the sky and Petyr realised his throat was actually quite dry.

“If you’ll forgive me Your Grace” he said then “I think I should probably leave it there for the moment, lest I wind up monopolising your time for the rest of the day. I also have a daughter and household to make sure are settled in.”

Stannis’s didn’t respond, but simply turned to look at Jon Arryn who in turn was staring at Petyr and then smiled slightly. Petyr suddenly felt like some sort of trap had been sprung, and he looked from Arryn back to the King and saw Stannis was now staring at him intently, and after a brief moment, he spoke.

“Lord Commander, I, know there was an additional task I assigned you, and I also know you wouldn’t have presented yourself before me to carry out your other duties without having that detail taken care of. So, who exactly is it you are to wed?”

Petyr gulped. It was not that he wasn’t expecting this conversation to come up, but that it had didn’t make it any more enjoyable or fun. He looked between the two men, and then steeled his nerves as he spoke.

“I’m awaiting confirmation from Starfall with regards to being betrothed to Lady Ashara Dayne” he spoke slowly, more so to make his tone sound respectful than out of any difficulty “Lord Alyn will need to agree to a dowry amount before all things are considered, but we were both certain there would be no issue.”

“And where, by chance, are you planning on having the wedding?”

Jon Arryn cut Petyr off then, and it took everything in his self control not to start giggling madly at the weirdness of this conversation. Both men were several years his elder, and yet the tone of their voices seemed to indicate that this was the most serious thing in the world.

“We hadn’t discussed that. I assume a small affair in Gulltown Sept.”

A look of annoyance crossed Stannis’s face then, and he passed a coin to Jon Arryn who chuckled slightly at that.

“Lord Commander Petyr” Stannis said then, his tone hard and his speech slow as if talking to a particularly dimwitted person “you sit now on my Small Council. Your position, while new, is one of utmost importance to my realm. As such, your wedding will be, by necessity, a major event lest you manage to offend every single high noble house in Westeros. Do you understand me?”

Petyr just nodded slowly, a growing feeling of unease in his stomach as he felt he knew what was coming.

“Your wedding will be held here, in King’s Landing. Typically We would not seek to insist on this matter, but your Banner Lord has given Us leave to do so. As your King, and with the permission of your Banner Lord, We will be insisting on it taking place before witnesses from throughout Our realm. It will also serve as a moment of bringing Our subjects together in a joyous occasion and allowing Ourselves to discuss the more pressing issues of the realm in a matter not requiring Ourselves to issue death sentences. We are not looking forward to it, but if it is a storm that We shall have to suffer through, then you may be certain that _you_ will do your duty by your King.”

“I see your Grace” Petyr said then, and he fought the urge to bury his head in his arms “would I be correct in assuming that you would be gracious enough to help me host such an event?”

“Consider it Our gift to you for your wedding. The burden of financing such an occasion shall be assisted by the Crown’s coffers. Considering some of that money comes from your taxes to begin with, We think it only fair.”


End file.
